


The Captain's Tale

by vinyl_octopus



Series: The Captain's Tale [1]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Eventual Romance, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Merman Martin, Rescue, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 22:28:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 24,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinyl_octopus/pseuds/vinyl_octopus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a routine "business meeting", Douglas discovers a merman, trapped in a private aquarium. The resulting daring rescue leads to an unexpected friendship... and so much more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Douglas hauled himself out of the taxi and gazed up at the gates blocking his entrance to the cliff-edged mansion. Imposing didn’t quite cover it. Ostentatious might have done, though at least the oddly retro, spaceship-inspired 1950s design that made the shape stick out like a sore thumb, was in muted, natural colours that allowed the building to otherwise blend into the rocky cliff-face. On the far side at least. On the road side, Douglas was still faced with a rather impressive wall and the iron gates that barred his entrance. He pressed the call button and shifted in the late afternoon sun. Heat shimmered off the roadway behind him and cicadas whirred loudly in the surrounding trees. He shrugged off his uniform jacket and removed his hat, basking in the flow of cool air this allowed. Bugger formality. He and Jack had known each other since high school and he wasn’t exactly here for a board meeting. 

The intercom buzzed, though no-one spoke to him. The gates before him opened smoothly inwards, not a creak or groan or shake. Of course. 

Douglas marched up the gravel driveway to the cool of the porch, raising a hand to the large brass knocker in the centre of the double-height wooden door. It was flung open before he had a chance to use it. 

“Douglas, old chap! You made it! Wonderful!” 

It had been 20 years since they’d last seen each other but Jack didn’t look much different. Bit greyer, bit jowlier. A bit more fake-tanned. Or maybe that was real, given where he lived. He had a cigar clamped between his teeth and was waving a glass of scotch gregariously about as he grabbed Douglas by the hand, simultaneously shaking his hand and hauling him over the threshold. 

Behind him was, good Lord, a butler, complete with old fashioned uniform, looking professionally ditherish at having his master answer the door in his stead. 

“Jeeves,” cried Jack, plucking the cigar from between his teeth and throwing his arm across Douglas’s shoulders, “this is my old friend, Douglas. We were at school together. Hell, we were at _flight school_ together. Even flew together for a bit. This chap is good people...” 

“Very good, sir,” replied the butler, with absolutely no inflection. “Will you be taking drinks in the usual, then?” 

Jack laughed at some joke obviously only he understood. “Yes, yes, of course,” he waved his glass-laden hand airily again, “don’t worry about us. You go off and... buttle in the kitchen or wherever it is you go. I can handle the bar. Douglas is here to talk business.” He removed his arm from Douglas’s shoulder, clapping him on the back and indicating he should follow him down the marble-lined corridor. 

“Jeeves” simply folded in an emotionless half bow and disappeared down a broad staircase to the left of the front door. 

Douglas shook his head as he followed his old friend into a breathtaking open plan lounge. The entire back wall was made of glass to capture the view of the ocean beyond, unimpeded as it was by anything, given that this room of the house overhung the cliff-edge and, Douglas noted with a quick look down, featured a sheer drop to some rather vicious wave-crashed rocks below. 

“Impressive house. I can see why you’d need _staff_. Is your butler _really_ called Jeeves?” 

“Good god, no,” chuckled Jack, wandering over to the fully-stocked bar in the corner of the vast room. “Charles, I think. I was calling him Alfred for a bit, but he never quite seemed to get that one.” 

“Indeed,” drawled Douglas, watching his friend pour a heroic amount of exceedingly expensive whisky into the crystal tumbler. 

“What’s your poison, old friend? Used to be Talisker, if I recall?” Jack held up a bottle, “This is better.” 

“Alas, I must decline anything alcoholic this time; flying later, you know, wouldn’t do to be, well...impaired.” 

Jack snorted derisively, as well he might, given their history and the purpose of Douglas’s visit, but he made no further comment as he filled a tall glass with ice and mineral water instead. 

“Right,” he said, bringing the two glasses, clinking with ice cubes, over to the space-age coffee table set in the sunken centre of the lounge room. “Take a seat, and let’s discuss this latest...assignment, shall we?” 

Douglas grinned as he took the proffered glass and clinked it against his friend’s. “Let’s.” 

Pretty straight forward really, but sometimes it was nice to catch up in person rather than always being, or leaving it up to, the middle men. This time Douglas had a box of what Jack would only call “treasure” to exchange on the next trip out. In a month’s time MJN were due back at the island and Douglas would return to Jack with whatever his New York contact was passing on. 

Details managed for now, Douglas was enjoying the rare indulgence of a Cuban cigar as they caught up on old times. 

To say Jack had done well for himself was an understatement. He’d made something of a career out of the very thing that had lost Douglas his Air England gig, though he assured Douglas that was because he kept ¾ of his business above-board and it helped that he’d married into money and power early in his career. Jack had left AE before Douglas but they’d stayed in touch. When Douglas had gradually started his sideline again from MJN Air, Jack had got in touch through a friend of a friend, looking for a likely fellow to help out with...smaller jobs. 

Now they were laughing aloud at some of the escapades they’d got up to in their younger years. At the easy joy, Douglas was almost able to forget how differently the years had treated them; to ignore how his cheap polyester uniform contrasted with his old friend’s designer clothes, to dismiss the fact that this wasn’t an expensive hotel that was neutral ground for both of them, but rather the exclusive millionaire’s abode that he really had no place entering. 

Jack slapped his hand down on the Italian leather settee. “C’mon Douglas, I’ve something special to show you.” His eyes gleamed with mischief as he stood up. “Downstairs. You’ll like this.” 

Unsure where they were headed, Douglas grabbed his jacket and hat, then stood and followed him to yet another secured sweeping staircase that led to a lower level. A second glass security door impeded their progress and Jack swiftly keyed in the code that commanded the door to slide open. 

“This,” he said, stepping backwards into the room with arms spread wide, “is where I keep my _real_ treasures.” 

Douglas stepped forward into a vaulted room clearly carved out of the very rock the house was built on. They were in the bowels of his friend’s home here, and as the door shut behind him he noted how muted the sound was. He looked around at the walls. Though the floor was made up of the same fine polished marble as upstairs, down here the walls were unfinished rock. But every few steps a glass panel was inset; behind each one, a different creature. 

It resembled nothing so much as some kind of indoor zoo or reptile house. 

Each glassed section was a cage. Each holding equally beautiful or dangerous creatures. Valuable and exotic he was sure. Endangered and kept illegally he just as certain. 

“I didn’t know you had pretensions to zoology, Jack.” 

“You know me, Douglas. I like fine things. Always have. The beautiful and the unusual. But these aren’t what I really wanted to show you,” he beamed and beckoned. 

Behind him, at the end of the room, a glass tank took up nearly the whole wall. It was filled with water and, Douglas could see, the back opened on to the ocean beyond – though it was walled off by a vicious looking grill and clearly concealed within an underwater cave. He couldn’t see what was inside, but the tank reached most of the height of the room. A set of metal stairs ran up an alcove at one side – evidently leading to an access hatch at the top, which must be the only way to feed whatever it was, without entering from the rather more dangerous ocean side. 

Jack was clearly bursting within anticipation as Douglas made his way open and hit a switch on the rock wall next to him that lit the tank more clearly. 

Douglas blinked. 

Rubbed his eyes. 

Blinked again. 

Looked at his friend. “This is a prank, I presume?” 

“Not at all. Stunning, isn’t it?” 

“A marvel, if it were real.” 

“Oh it’s real, all right. Found it myself. Diving off one of the local islands. You know what they say about the Triangle,” he laughed. 

Douglas drew his gaze back to the creature floating listlessly in the tank. 

The... _merman_... in the tank. 

It wasn’t looking at either of them. Hadn’t even flickered its gaze when Jack flashed on the lights. It wasn’t swimming, wasn’t doing anything. 

“It looks a bit...” 

“Yes,” Jack frowned. “I’ll liven it up a bit. It’s got a magnificent tail when it gets going.” 

He strode over to the stairs, rubbing his hands together, leaping up them two at a time. He grabbed what looked like a long fish hook that was leaning against the wall, then leaned over to turn a wheel at the top of the tank. It released with a loud clang and Douglas saw the merman start a little at that. 

Jack plunged the hook into the water and proceeded to prod and poke at the creature, trying to get it to move. 

It worked, insofar as the creature moved away by increments until eventually it was huddled against the glass in the furthest corner away from the intruding stick. 

“Damn and blast it,” huffed Jack, removing the pole and slamming the lid shut again with a spin of the wheel. “Still,” he said, standing up proudly and leaning the pole back against the wall. “You can see what an impressive specimen it is? My best yet!” 

A shiver went down Douglas’s spine and he pulled his jacket back on against the chill. 

He turned from his friend and looked back at the tank. The creature was more alert now, had floated a little further away. But Douglas could see its gaze was on him. He moved closer as it swam towards the glass and he realized –it wasn’t looking at him, exactly. It was his… cap? He waved it experimentally and watched the creature follow it. 

Behind him he heard Jack chuckle. “Likes the shiny braid, I don’t doubt.” 

Douglas ignored his friend and put the hat on his head. The creature moved closer to the glass, tail twitching, one hand pressed against the pane. Its gaze was firmly on Douglas’s now. 

“Made a friend there, have you? Heh, don’t worry. The glass is thick. Bit like our fishy friend. Haha.” 

Douglas took another step forward, unable to look away from those beseeching eyes. As he drew closer he could see the merman’s hand was ever so slightly webbed where it clenched spasmodically against the glass. The shimmering green tail was lashing a little more now, the fins straightened out where before they’d been limp, revealing an almost rainbow-like shimmer. And yet… for all that the pale human portion of the creature was tinted the faintest of greens, for all the gills and webbing and slight scaling marked him as otherworldly, as Douglas stared into the alien face, he thought he’d never seen anything so human. 

Particularly when the creature looked him straight in the face and clearly mouthed “ _help me_ ”.  


Douglas breathed in sharply. 

Jack didn’t seem to have noticed. “Completely mute, you know. And not very bright. Well, obviously. Peculiar how human it looks though, don’t you think?” 

“Have you never tried communicating with it?” 

“Commu—? Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a fish. Clearly. Look. When I first got it we tried all sorts of tests and chucked a load of toys and things in the tank. I mean, even dolphins and seals and suchlike play games and even use tools. But this thing…” Jack shook his head. “Scientific miracle it might be, but doesn’t even have the nous of a goldfish. Still. Worth a fortune.” 

Jack flicked off the light and made his way over to another wall. “But here’s the other reason we’re here.” He pressed a button and an otherwise invisible panel slid back to reveal a safe. He typed in the code and the door released, allowing him to remove the box Douglas had actually come to pick up in the first place. 

Jack looked at his watch. “Blast. I’ve a dinner meeting to head to now. But my driver can take you back to the hotel. I’ll see you in a month, yes? With my…ah… exchange?” He slapped Douglas on the shoulder as they made their way out of what Douglas was starting to think of as a _dungeon_. Jack carefully securing the door behind them; Douglas carefully not looking back at all. 

He held the box gripped in both arms as Jack chivvied him good naturedly to the front door, outside of which, as promised, Jack’s personal driver was already pulling up in a shiny black saloon – without even having been ordered. 

Douglas slithered across the leather back seat to secure himself behind the driver’s side and tried not to spend the trip back to the hotel thinking too hard about the creature he had abandoned at his friend’s house.


	2. Chapter 2

The merman’s head broke the surface of the water and he let out a shocking piercing shriek. Douglas would have been convinced it was a scream of fear or pain, were it not for the unmistakeable look of joy on his face as he watched the security grill “roof” retract the rest of the way, leaving the tank completely open. 

It was hard to be cross in light of that expression, but that cacophony had rather undone all his efforts at breaking in quietly. Even now Douglas could hear the sounds of security guards making their way downstairs. He looked back up to where the merman was scrabbling at the side of the tank, clearly trying to haul himself out over the edge. Jesus. He was already worried about whether or not the poor thing would survive outside the water – what it certainly would not survive, at least not in one piece, Douglas realised as he dashed over, was the sheer drop from the top of the tank to the floor on the side it was trying. He ran up the steps on the other side and called quietly to the struggling creature. At least from this side he could help drag him out. 

“Here, come here!” Douglas called softly – holding his arms out. 

The merman glanced over from where he’d been trying to lever himself over the edge of the tank, mistrust evident in his gaze. 

Douglas sighed. “I’m trying to _help_ you. Have you any idea how much trouble I – _we_ – are about to be in? You’re going to hurt yourself if you go that way. Let me carry you down.” 

The creature looked assessingly at the metal staircase and then at the drop before him. Looked across the floor at the enormous, wheeled sports bag that Douglas had lined with wet towels. 

A clang from the top of the stairs outside alerted them that time really was running out. 

The merman let go of the side of the tank, slipping quietly back into the water and gliding across to Douglas, who grabbed him under the arms. A powerful kick of his tail launched him out of the water to chest-height, sending Douglas staggering back at the unexpected push. He lost his grip on the creature, who tumbled in a series of soggy thuds and clangs down the stairs to land with a wet, meaty slap on the marble below. Douglas himself slid down several steps, scraping his spine and ribs, and coming to a wrenching stop only by grabbing the strut of a handrail. 

There was no way that commotion would have gone unheard by the guards upstairs. He could hear raised voices now; a sign that they’d finally managed to locate Jack and so unlock the first door. 

He eased himself up and looked down at the creature, desperately worried he’d find it lying in a pool of blood. 

The merman was, in fact, clearly somewhat bruised and battered. It had also flipped itself over to lay splayed on its back. It was panting. 

Douglas cursed himself for a fool. Of course, he’d thought about keeping the creature damp, at least until he could get it out of the house, but he hadn’t thought about whether or not it would be able to breathe out of the water. 

Except… 

Panting. Not gasping. So it was breathing. 

Douglas heaved himself up off the stairs, wincing as the creature’s eyes shot open, wide with fear. He raised his hands in the universal sign of pacification, but both he and the merman flinched as a loud knocking came from the door outside. 

“We’re going to have to get out of here. Fast.” Douglas said, with no idea whether the creature could understand him, and less idea where to find an exit. Running a hand through his hair he began to examine the back wall of the cave. It would be just like Jack to have a hidden panel. 

“It’s in the floor,” came a croaky voice behind him. 

Douglas froze. He hadn’t heard the last door open. He turned slowly. 

The merman was clambering unsteadily to his feet, one hand rubbing at his own throat. 

Douglas gaped at the young man standing naked and wobbly before him. 

The no-longer-a-creature misread his confusion. “The exit. It’s in the floor.” He gestured to the left of where Douglas was standing, where the finest line could be seen in the floor. A trapdoor. 

A lurching motion behind him drew Douglas’s attention to the young man throwing himself at the nearest wall sconce, his falling body weight pulling it down…and causing the trapdoor to open. He couldn’t help a fond grin at Jack’s ludicrous architecture. Of course, all the best pirates and smugglers would have not just a hideaway – in a cove, he noted – but an escape route as well. 

Two strides forward put him in reach of the apparently unnecessary sports bag, which he grabbed to minimise evidence, even while knowing their exploits so far had almost certainly been caught on camera. He secured his other arm around the young man’s waist, helping him to stumble towards the trapdoor just as the door to the chamber itself finally opened. 

No time to check where they were going, Douglas launched both of them down the dark, damp stone stairwell, his new friend thankfully having the presence of mind to yank the hatch closed behind them.


	3. Chapter 3

It was pitch black down there. It wouldn’t be for long. Their pursuers would almost certainly be immediately behind them, but for the moment Douglas was blind. He released the merman, who stumbled slightly before apparently leaning against the wall beside him, then fumbled amongst the wet towels in the unwieldy bag before finding what he was looking for. 

He twisted the torch on and aimed it down a narrow stairwell. 

“All right?” He caught the merman’s eye. 

The young man nodded. 

“If I go first, you can grip my belt to keep your balance if you need to. We haven’t got much time.” 

Down here they couldn’t hear the noises in the room above, though it was only steps away. They _could_ hear the not-so-distant sound of the sea. And an incessant dripping. 

Throwing the bag over one shoulder and bracing one hand against the wall, Douglas set off down the stairs, feeling his belt tighten as the other man gripped it with both hands and followed closely, precariously behind. 

After two flights, the passage opened out and curved around. Douglas could hear water lapping, which confirmed his suspicions that this passage was likely to lead to another underground lair from which one could escape to the open sea. Sure enough, as they rounded the corner the sound of water became louder and the ground underfoot became crunchier, the light a little brighter. 

Behind him the young man stumbled and hissed, his already awkward gait becoming more of a limp. Without thinking, Douglas turned, scooping the man into his arms and trudging on. Ignoring the indignant squawk that echoed through the passageway. 

Just the one squeak, he noticed. Goodness knows how long it had been since the merman had been in human form and actually had to walk. Evidently the pain and discomfort had, for now, outweighed the man’s fears and embarrassment as he clung to Douglas’s neck. A few more steps and Douglas could see salvation before them. A small boat tethered to a convenient, if incongruous, metal hook in one of the larger rocks that lined the mouth of what he could now see was a narrow cave. 

They’d found it just in time. There was a definite thunder of boots on stairs echoing through the chamber behind them. 

A few steps more and Douglas was able to set the young man on his feet. He leaned over to untie the rope, using the same to pull the boat a little closer to the rocks. He threw the bag into the front and leapt gracelessly aboard. He regained his balance, then turned to where the merman was standing shakily on the rocks. 

“Come on, it’s just one big step.” He held out his arms, the untied rope still looped through the hook and clasped in one hand. “I’ll catch you.” 

The merman wavered, looking doubtfully at the boat rocking gently in the near-dark. From deeper in the cave came the scuff and shuffle of boots and the echo of raised voices. Another moment and they’d be caught. 

Douglas shot a glance at the engine. Even if the young man jumped aboard now, there was no promising the boat would start on first try. A flash of light and a shout signalled the arrival of their pursuers. 

“Come _on_!” Douglas barked, dropping the rope and leaning forwards. At the same moment, the young man dived into the water, raising barely a splash and leaving Douglas flailing at the edge. 

Well, that was gratitude for you. Still. Mission accomplished. 

Almost. As the torchlight grew brighter, Douglas hauled the rope from the hook and hurled himself to the back of the boat, adjusting the choke and yanking on the starter rope – praying the engine would catch, rather than flood. 

Unfortunately it appeared the fortunes of a skygod did not extend to Neptune’s lair, and the engine merely coughed pathetically. 

On the plus side, the boat had already floated away from the rocks at the edge of the cave and was out of arm’s reach of the heavyset guards yelling at him from the shoreline. 

On the downside, there were no oars in the bottom of the boat, and it was likely he was just going to float uselessly until one of them either dived in after him or, more likely, some other henchman came at him from the waterside cave entrance, using a better water vehicle. Already, he was sure, he could hear the distant sound of a jet ski. Almost certainly Jack had planned ahead for precisely this sort of eventuality. Although it was doubtful he’d imagined this _exact_ scenario. 

Knowing it was futile, Douglas reached again for the cord, only to be tipped back as the boat lurched forward and began to make its way out the mouth of the cave to the open ocean without any input from him or the engine. 

Behind him the shouts grew simultaneously more frantic and more distant as, he ducked a look over the side of the boat to which he was clinging, the merman propelled them further and further away from the cave.


	4. Chapter 4

They weren’t, in fact, so very far from the nearest shore – but certainly further than Douglas could have managed to swim. Nevertheless, even without speaking it seemed the merman had realised that the sooner they, or, Douglas supposed, _he_ , got to dry, populated land, the sooner he could get away from his friend’s henchmen and make good his escape. They may have lost the jet ski for now, but it would be after them soon enough. Even without their own engine to follow and under the cover of night, it would be fairly obvious where they’d be headed – Douglas wouldn’t survive out on the open ocean. 

Within half an hour, maybe more, Douglas could hear the waves crashing and soon felt the hushing drag of the boat sliding across sodden sand. Heedless of his shoes and trousers, he leapt out into calf-deep water and dragged it up the dark beach, before turning to where the merman was gasping in the shallows. 

Flicking a look around him to be sure the beach was as deserted as it appeared, Douglas dropped to his knees, wincing as a wave splashed him mid-thigh, and grasped the creature’s hand in thanks. 

The merman was still trying to haul himself breathlessly up the sand, elbow shaking as it took his weight. He was clearly exhausted from their flight; from pushing Douglas and his boat all the way back to land. Douglas let go of his hand and rested his own gently on the thing’s shoulder. 

“It’s all right. You’re all right. You’re safe now.” He looked up at the black ocean beyond. “Well, you will be. Thank you for helping me. But you can go now.” He gestured at the distant, invisible horizon. “You’d _better_ go now. I can’t imagine what they’d do to either of us if they caught us again, but I suspect it would at least be over quickly for me…” 

The creature’s brow was furrowed as he looked at Douglas and then behind him to the ocean. His lips tightened and he shrugged Douglas’s hand off to undulate himself more forcefully up the sand – out of the water, Douglas realised. He reached out to help and was treated to a violent splash as the creature hurled himself forward in a defiant flip, landing a good metre beyond the breaking waves. Douglas pulled himself, dripping, to his feet and watched as the creature rolled onto his back, arms outstretched, panting up into the night air, gazing up at the stars with a glazed expression. Trails of water ran down his remarkably pale, muscled chest, and his tail shimmered and twitched in the moonlight. 

Douglas couldn’t tear his eyes away. 

And was completely unprepared for the fine shower of water droplets that hit him as the creature shook his tail violently in the air, effectively drying off like a dog. 

The sudden barking screech knocked the look of outrage right off Douglas’s face and the merman clapped both hands over his mouth, though the look of mirth in his eyes was clear. Douglas smirked and raised a single eyebrow in recognition of the tease. Then watched as the merman seemed to relax and stretch and… groan with what must have been relief as he suddenly _shifted_ and reverted back to human. 

Very naked human. 

It occurred to Douglas that he’d already run through an underground cave system with this naked man. _Carried_ him, in fact. But somehow he seemed a lot more naked, and human, now they were on a deserted beach together. 

A quirked eyebrow aimed pointedly at him suggested he’d been staring a little too long. And he considered that perhaps they ought to be getting off the beach and back into town. 

He cleared his throat to suggest as much but… 

“Martin,” said the young man, standing, a little wobbly, and holding out his hand. 

“I…what? Oh! Um Douglas.” He shook the creature’s hand, aware that he was staring once again. “Martin? Really? That seems a bit…” 

A slight grin. “Normal? Human?” 

“Well. Yes.” 

“I am human, most of the time. I mean… as long as I don’t…er…” 

“Get too damp?” 

“Something like that.” 

“Right. Well, _Martin_. Do I take it that means you don’t plan to flee across the seven seas? Because if you’re planning to complete your escape as a landlubber, we’re going to need to head back to town, and I can’t help noticing you’re a bit” – he looked Martin fleetingly up and down – “underdressed.” 

“Ah. Yes…” Martin seemed to grow belatedly self-conscious. A rather charming flush bloomed across his cheeks as he subtly brought his hands around to cup his genitals as if he’d only just remembered they were on show. He coughed. “Well, I, um, I didn’t really pack for this, uh…” 

“Neither did I,” huffed Douglas, thinking of the useless and pointless oversized bag full of towels. “I had no idea…well,” he waved a hand at Martin’s general personage. 

Martin flushed brighter and shrank into himself. 

“Hey, now, none of that,” Douglas soothed. “Something you should know about me is that I am _awfully_ good at getting out of sticky situations. I think we’ve managed the hardest part of the evening, now we’re just down to… ah yes!” 

He marched over to the boat and hauled out the bag, brandishing it at Martin. “Towels! Here.” He tossed one at Martin, who failed to catch it one-handed, still desperately trying to hide himself behind one hand. “Tie this around your waist and voila! You’re just a young man going for a midnight dip. Should be enough to get us back to the hotel and then I’ve probably got some clothes you can borrow.” He looked askance at Martin’s significantly leaner and more petite form. “Might not be a perfect fit, but they’ll do for now.” 

Martin looked up from fastening the now-sandy, still-damp towel around his waist and nodded uncertainly. 

“Come on then,” said Douglas confidently. “I’m reasonably sure this is just the far end of the city beach. Which means my hotel, flea-ridden and mouldering though it is, is only a block or two away. As we walk, you can tell me how you ended up locked in an aquarium… and once you’re dressed and we’ve rested up, maybe we can track down your family.” 

Douglas threw the bag over one shoulder and gestured to Martin to accompany him along the soft sand toward the broad expanse of stairs in the distance. He completely missed the way the flush drained entirely from Martin’s face when he mentioned his family.


	5. Chapter 5

Contrary to Douglas’s jovial suggestion, they didn’t chat about Martin’s experience on the way back to his hotel. In fact, they were lucky to make it at all. It was clear the night’s experience had completely drained the merman, who was shuddering with what Douglas hoped was just exhaustion, and alternating between stumbling and limping up the road. Not that Douglas was much better, squelching along in his wet shoes and sodden clothes, but he was mostly able to ignore those as he kept one eye on, and one arm around, Martin. Luckily it was late enough that the streets were mostly empty, and he was able to laugh off their appearance as drunken tourist tomfoolery to the few who looked liable to ask questions, valiantly ignoring the way Martin tensed every time another person crossed their path. 

Finally they made it back to the grotty fleapit Douglas was calling home for the time being. His room key was, thankfully, still secure in his buttoned trouser pocket and he managed to unlock the door just as Martin collapsed completely. 

Bending at his protesting knees, Douglas scooped up the young man and manoeuvred them both into his dingy room, kicking the door shut with one foot. 

Martin’s hair and towel had both dried on the walk back, so Douglas lay him gently on the twin bed nearest the wall, taking a moment to feel his forehead, before considering that he had no idea whether to expect him to run at the same temperature as a human or not. 

Deciding to assume he was, as he’d claimed, largely human, he concluded he could treat him as such. He filled a glass with water and placed it on the bedside table next to Martin’s bed; rifled through his flight bag for his spare set of sleep clothes – the only things likely, by dint of their drawstring, to actually fit Martin’s slight frame; then took himself and his own change of clothes into the bathroom for a much-needed shower. 

After a short debate with himself, he’d made sure the room key was in full view in the centre of the small desk by the window, and closed, but didn’t shut the bathroom door. The last thing he wanted Martin to think, if he should wake before Douglas finished, was that he’d been abandoned – or locked up. 

The hot water stung his salt-ravaged skin in the best possible way and Douglas luxuriated in the feel of the cheap soap lathering away the pesky specks of sand that had found their way into his clothes. He took far longer than usual scrubbing the night’s adventure from every centimetre of his skin, before emerging damp and tousled in the bedroom. 

Martin had obviously woken while he was washing. He’d dressed himself in Douglas’s clothes and they would have looked comical if it wasn’t for the dejected way he was holding himself on the bed. Clutched in one hand was Douglas’s captain’s hat. Martin hadn’t even looked up at Douglas’s entrance, busily running one finger over the cap’s gold braid. 

Douglas cleared his throat and Martin startled, gazing at Douglas with large, wet eyes; both hands reflexively clutching at the hat. 

Douglas raised his brows and looked pointedly at Martin’s hands. 

Martin bit his lip, looking across the opposite side of the room and made to hand the cap back, clearly embarrassed. 

Douglas waved it away. “That’s how I knew, you know.” 

Martin turned sharply. 

Douglas pointed at the hat. “The first time I saw you. That’s how I knew you weren’t just… a _fish_.” He pulled a face as he mimicked Jack’s words. “You couldn’t take your eyes off my hat. At first I thought it was because it’s shiny, but it was a more deliberate interest than that. More specific.” He paused expectantly. 

Martin rubbed his thumb over the cap’s brim. “I was a pilot,” he said softly. 

Douglas blinked. Imagining some sort of secret air force made up of mythical beings, he sank onto the second bed. 

Martin rolled his eyes. “Nothing like… whatever you’re thinking. Just… an ordinary pilot. It was…” his voice went a bit wistful “…The most amazing thing in the world. Being able to fly. It was…everything.” 

Thirty years of doing his own dream job had left Douglas jaded. For a creature of legend to be calling it amazing was a little shocking. 

“I crashed.” said Martin, interrupting Douglas’s thought. “Five years ago. Right in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle.” He whuffed a deeply unamused laugh. “The problem with an accident like that is the rescue. If you’re someone like _me_ ,” he wiggled his newly recovered toes suggestively, “it gets a bit dangerous to be rescued. Only I wasn’t fast enough. Got tangled up in the seatbelt and by the time I’d got free there were already divers in the area. Just my luck. Mr Grayson’s team was exploring nearby. That’s what he does. Searches for wrecks and collects ‘sunken treasure’. They _tranq’d_ me. Some special dart they carry around in case sharks come sniffing around while they’re exploring. When I woke up, I was in that tank. God knows what he had in there before me.” 

“Five years?” 

“That’s right. ‘S’why I had so much trouble walking tonight. And swimming.” He looked disgusted at himself, plucking uncomfortably at the cloth covering his chest and legs. “I haven’t been in human form for five years… and I haven’t had space to swim properly, either. Wasn’t even room to do laps in that tank.” He rubbed his arm thoughtfully, still gripping Douglas’s hat. 

From where he was sitting, Douglas could see long, jagged scars lining Martin’s forearm. It didn’t take a genius to work out the implications. 

“Seashells,” Martin muttered softly. Douglas frowned, confused by the apparently random segue, until he continued. “Except they worked out that’s what I was doing. Then they cleared the floor of everything but sand.” He was still rubbing at his arm, his own small frown having replaced the wistful look. 

Douglas cursed the man he had once called friend. Even if he’d been blind to everything else, surely this …self-injury (he refused to call it what it was, even as he caught Martin’s knowing eye) must have shown him this was an intelligent, self-aware creature. He shook his head. He’d like to think he would never have befriended someone so cruel in the first place, but the truth was he and Jack had only ever been friends through circumstance. They enjoyed the same games and thrills when they’d worked together, but what did he really know of the man’s fundamental character? 

Not enough, he decided as he looked at the damaged creature… _man_ … before him. 

“You’re free now,” Douglas said. “Whatever you need, I’ll help you.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Why?” The question was blunt, but not harsh. 

“Because… look, I’ve done a lot of things I’m not proud of over the years. And I’ve _‘worked’_ with Jack a little more often than was wise lately. Ignored things I shouldn’t, not asked questions when I should have done. I could have walked away a thousand times, but it was always one more thrill. Now, I didn’t know he had you locked up down there. How could I? But… when I think about it, it doesn’t surprise me as much as it ought that he’s capable of treating any creature–” Martin bristled– “or any _one_ the way he treated you. Granted, nothing I did would have prevented him from doing what he did. But I can certainly make a few things right for you now.” 

Martin had placed Douglas’s cap reverently on the bed for now, and was smoothing his palms over his own thighs. Not sensuously, but more as if to remind himself that his legs were still there. His toes flexed in the grimy carpet. 

“Where are you from, Martin?” Douglas asked gently. “Have you any f–” The violent headshake halted that question. “Is there anyone at all?” 

Martin sighed. “England. If you can’t tell from my accent. And no. There’s no one. I– Well, it doesn’t matter. I was living as a human. Not… Not entirely successfully. I had a…a… van. I used it to, uh, help people. Move things. And I’d save up the money I earned so I could fly. That…” he cleared his throat. “That was my whole existence.” 

A faint spark of an idea prickled in Douglas’s mind. 

“Well. You might be in luck. Lucky for you, I flew solo this time. Rather had to, since Nigel up and quit. And the only other person aboard is likely to consider your presence ‘ _brilliant_ ’.” 

“Douglas.” Martin looked panicked. “We c-can’t…y-you can’t… I mean I can’t… you can’t _tell_ anyone about… _this_!” He jumped awkwardly to his feet, hands clawing agitatedly at his hair. The most animated he’d been since they left the water. 

Douglas raised both hands and one corner of his mouth. “Oh, Martin. _Trust me_. I promise, Arthur has what you might call a rather sunny disposition. We don’t need to tell him any of your mythical secrets for him to be bowled over.” 

“Who… who is Arthur?” 

“Arthur, is MJN’s – that’s the company I work for – MJN’s pet steward. Or, as I like to call him, a clot. He’s incompetent, ridiculous and completely useless…” 

“Then why–?” 

“–He’s also friendly and loyal and thoughtful. He loves people and ‘helping’, and he’s one of the best friends you could have. If ever I was going to try to sneak someone home aboard my plane, Arthur’s the one I’d want in the cabin.” 

“Because he’s good at keeping secrets?” 

“Oh, good god, no; he’s atrocious at that. But first of all, the cabin will be otherwise empty, and second of all, you’re not going to be much of a secret once we land, anyway. What he will be is irretrievably excited and desperate to rescue you from your plight, and it’s just possible that will work in our favour, given his mother owns both the plane and the company.” Douglas let that sink in. 

“I’m not sure…” 

“Just… let me do the talking when we get home. It’s up to you, though. We’re flying back to England tomorrow. If you would like to join us, I am certain I can smuggle you on board with relative ease.” 

“But what will I…?” 

“Now, you said you had a van. It’s been five years, so it’s almost certainly been towed from wherever you left it by now…any idea where that was?” 

“Well… It would have been somewhere near… Fitton, I suppose.” 

“What? Really?” Douglas couldn’t hide the notes of suspicion and doubt in his voice. 

“Why? You’ve heard of it?” 

“MJN operates out of Fitton airfield. I only _live_ a few miles away.” 

“Oh,” said Martin, not looking quite as surprised as Douglas might have expected. 

Before he could ask, Martin gestured around the room. “Cheap rent… at Fitton.” 

Douglas’s brow furrowed. 

“This isn’t a very expensive room,” Martin explained. “I know I didn’t work for an airline, but even I know this is pretty substandard for a professional pilot. Especially,” he pointed at the cap, “a captain. You’ve mentioned a single charter plane and it’s obviously a family business. Fitton is the cheapest airfield in the UK. How do you think _I_ was able to fly? That was the only place that was affordable. And you’ll note the only plane I could afford to rent _fell out of the sky_.” 

Douglas swallowed at all that implied. But on a brighter note… 

“There’s still the junk yard out the back of Fitton airport. It’s um… possible your van may have ended up there. A long shot, and even if it hasn’t been torn to scrap I doubt it’s in any condition for driving, but…” 

“Nice thought, Douglas. And really I… I can’t thank you enough for getting me out of that place. I’d…I’d really rather given up hope.” He swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut tight. “Actually going _home_ is so far beyond anything I’d…” he clenched his fists, visibly bringing himself under control. “I never expected to get home. Not… not without a miracle and a really…. _really_ long swim. If you…if you are really willing to fly me back to Fitton that would be…” 

Douglas couldn’t take this any more. He carefully shifted himself across to the other bed and slid an arm gently across the young man’s shoulders. 

Martin suppressed a sob with a full body shudder, before twisting blindly in Douglas’s arms and clutching at his shirt. Douglas could feel the poor man’s heart thundering in his chest as he rubbed one hand soothingly over Martin’s back. There were no tears, just heaving gasps and shaking. He tightened his grip and pressed his cheek into the salt-stiff ginger curls that were brushing his chin. Overwhelmed by a need to protect this strange…stranger. 

Eventually, Martin calmed again and Douglas encouraged him to lie down, pulling the bed sheets loose to cover him. Five years trapped in an underwater gaol cell: it occurred to Douglas to wonder whether the young man would even be able to sleep on a mattress, but even as he wondered, it appeared exhaustion had taken Martin under. 

Douglas allowed himself a moment to trail one hand protectively through Martin’s hair, before pulling away from the contented snuffle and tucking himself to sleep in the bed on the other side of the room.


	7. Chapter 7

A loud thumping thud from the bathroom woke him the next morning. A glance at Martin’s empty bed assured him 1. he had not dreamt the previous night’s events and 2. It was almost certainly Martin in the bathroom. 

He dragged himself out of bed and across the room to stand blinking in the doorway. Martin, in full merman form, lay contorted, half in and half out of the slowly draining bath. He was flailing failingly with one arm at the bath towel, just out of reach on the counter, while at the other end of the bath his tail flapped wetly at the damp shower curtain that had wrapped around one fluke. 

Douglas’s snort of amusement drew an immediate glare from Martin as he flailed more determinedly towards the towel. 

All too aware by now that Martin couldn’t actually speak in this form, Douglas blithely stepped forward and plucked the towel from the sink top, handing it casually to Martin and stepping into position to clean his teeth as if that was all he’d planned all along. A frustrated huff and thump behind him signalled Martin successfully levering himself back into the bath. The squeal of metal curtain rings indicated rather less success extricating himself from the shower curtain. 

Catching a glimpse of Martin’s furiously frustrated face in the mirror, Douglas managed, by heroic effort, not to inhale or exhale toothpaste foam, and carefully rinsed out his mouth before walking over to the bath and delicately peeling the curtain away from Martin’s tail. 

Ironic, he thought as his departure was accompanied by Martin’s irritated hiss, how catlike a fish creature could be. 

 

***

 

They’d agreed, in the end, that Martin would stay in the room while Douglas met Arthur for breakfast. Not that Arthur was the suspicious type, but they nearly always met for breakfast on the day of a flight, and while Douglas wouldn’t be giving Arthur any hints before they got to Gertie, he certainly wanted to make sure Arthur would be in the right place at the right time to make sure getting Martin on board would be as straightforward as possible. 

Luckily for Douglas – and for Martin – Arthur didn’t for a moment question Douglas collecting a double portion at the breakfast buffet to “take some back to the room”. Less luckily, having assumed Douglas was preparing his usual back-up meal in the face of MJN catering, Arthur was prompted to do the same, promising Douglas an “unimaginable feast” on the journey home. Almost certainly an accurate description, Douglas decided, privately reminding himself to pick up something edible before take-off. 

 

***

 

The local airport, he explained to Martin, who was shovelling down cold bacon and soggy toast like he hadn’t eaten in a month, was a small one. Not unlike Fitton and with comparable security requirements. Douglas had already circumvented the few there were in order to facilitate his usual… activities, but getting a human on board without any papers might be rather trickier than convincing a few officials that a couple of unexpected pallets weren’t worthy of inspection. 

“What about that—?” asked Martin, wiping his mouth and pointing at the discarded sports bag from the night before. “You were planning to rescue me in it last night… it’s the same principle, isn’t it?” 

That it was. But, Douglas admitted to himself, somehow it had felt different when he thought he was rescuing a _creature_ – however intelligent and aware he’d believed it to be. Tucking a grown man – even a small one, into a sporty version of a body bag seemed somehow— 

Martin had already leapt up and emptied the bag, tucking himself neatly inside. 

—wrong. 

Martin nodded at him encouragingly to zip the bag shut. 

Douglas did. It was wheeled, so for the most part it shouldn’t be too stressful but there was always one thing to be tested… 

”Now see if you can lift,” came Martin’s muffled voice. 

It was an effort, and not a few grunts and squeaks involved at Martin’s end… but he could lift it. 

_Just_. 

He swung it back down to the ground and unzipped it. 

Martin sat up. He looked a little more ruffled now. 

“You’d have to be a bit more quiet than that,” said Douglas doubtfully. 

Martin looked indignant. 

“I know!” Douglas raised his hands placatingly then looked at his watch. “The problem is, we haven’t got any more time to practise. Are you… Are you sure you’re all right with this? I’ll be as quick as I can, but you’re going to have to stay in there for the trip to and through the airport. 

“Ab-solutely fine.” Martin promised. 

“I’ll try to avoid any areas where I’ll have to carry you.” 

A jaunty and ongoing knock at the door signalled Arthur’s arrival. Douglas tucked a last few items into his flight bag then zipped it and Martin’s bag back up, swinging his flight bag and balancing the sports bag on its wheeled end to roll it out the door behind him. 

He left the special box Jack had given him to collect in the first place on the table in the middle of the room. With Jack’s contact details.


	8. Chapter 8

Arthur had been working with Douglas for long enough now that it didn’t even occur to him to question any extra bags or packages the captain saw fit to add to their cargo. Douglas had friends at nearly every airport and Arthur had learned to accept the way Douglas – and often the rest of Gertie’s crew – seemed to get waved through with joking chatter and far less luggage inspection than he was used to. 

They’d got all the way on board and Douglas had completed the walk round and ensured all the doors were secured before it apparently occurred to Arthur that, even allowing for the fact that his mum wasn’t on this trip, it was unusual for Douglas to keep his “extra luggage” in the cabin. 

“All right, Arthur. I’ve got a bit of a surprise today,” said Douglas, kneeling next to his bag. 

“Right-o, Douglas.” Arthur stepped back to allow Douglas to reveal this week’s magic. 

He seemed entirely unprepared, however, when Douglas pulled back the zip on the bag and a grown man sat up, stretching extravagantly before catching sight of the steward and curling back in on himself with a nervous expression. “Uh, Douglas–” For once Arthur’s voice was doubtful. 

Douglas broke in smoothly, calmingly, as he put one hand out to help the other man out of the bag. “Arthur, this is Martin. I promised him a lift home.” 

“Oh. Okay. Uh, hi Martin!” Arthur reached to shake Martin’s hand but his smile was still set closer to worried than blinding. “Um. Why were you in a bag?” 

Martin began to stutter out an answer, but Douglas clamped a reassuring – and quieting – hand on his shoulder. “Martin here was staying with a…former colleague of mine. You know what my mates and I are like,” Douglas allowed himself a dark chuckle he didn’t feel, “this was all part of the game. I’m helping Martin, uh, cheat. My, um, ‘friend’ claimed no one could escape from his fancy house and Martin and I proved him wrong.” 

The trick to lying was to skate as closely as possible to the truth. 

As Arthur grinned, evidently positive Douglas had won yet another round in a harmless game of one-upmanship, Martin slowly relaxed a single degree. 

“Right. Arthur, I take it I can leave you to make sure our passenger is comfortable while I get on with flying the plane and so forth?” 

“What? Oh! Yes, of course, Douglas. Uh, right this way, sir. If you’d just like to take a seat, um… anywhere you’d like, really. I’ll be your cabin crew today and Douglas will be your…pilot…” 

Martin managed a small grin as he eased himself into the nearest seat. Not, Douglas noticed as he headed to the flight deck, a window seat. 

 

Arthur grabbed the discarded sports bag and stowed it in the locker nearest the galley. 

He turned back to see his passenger had buckled himself in as tightly as humanly possible and was sitting head tilted back, eyes clamped shut, hands gripping the arms of the chair. 

The plane hadn’t even started moving yet. 

“Are you… are you quite all right, sir? Could I maybe get you some water?” 

Martin swallowed and opened his eyes a sliver. “No. Thanks. ’m fine. Just…” 

Arthur was impressed at the way Martin got all that out without unclenching his teeth. 

“All right, well you just sit tight. I’m sure we’ll be off soon. There’s…uh… there’s no need to be nervous. Douglas is brilliant! Really! The best pilot we’ve ever had!” 

Martin managed a faint smile as Arthur wandered worriedly into the flight deck. 

 

“Everything tickety-boo back there, Arthur?” asked Douglas, flicking switches and adjusting dials at apparent random. 

“Um. Yes. Except.” 

Douglas stopped. “Except what, Arthur?” 

“Well, I think your friend might be afraid of flying.” 

“Afraid of…? But he’s— oh. Oh yes, I suppose that would make sense. Arthur, do you think you could sit with him?” 

“I thought he might want some space,” admitted Arthur. “Only Mum always says I’m A Bit Much…” 

“Well. Possibly that’s true,” said Douglas. “But I think on this occasion, what Martin could do with is a bit of a distraction. He’s a pilot, you know, but he’s had a bit of a rough time of it. P’raps you could just go out there and talk to him? Get his mind off things.” 

“Okay. What should I talk to him about?” 

“Oh, anything, I should think. It’s his own thoughts he needs distracting from, I expect.” Douglas suddenly remembered that this was Arthur he was talking to. “Perhaps _don’t_ talk to him about plane crashes or the Bermuda Triangle, though, hmm?” 

The brief look of disappointment on Arthur’s face was enough to reassure him as ATC came through and confirmed they were cleared to move. 

***

The flight, as it turned out, was fine. After the initial clammy panic that froze him through the thundering take-off, Martin was so busy being flustered by his own awkwardness and Arthur’s overeager friendliness that they were halfway home before he noticed. And by that time it seemed a little late to be worried. 

Arthur’s “unimagineable feast”, would have been best _left_ unimagined, but the sandwiches Douglas had bought for all three of them in preparatory digestive self-defence were perfectly adequate. 

Arthur reported that Martin weathered the landing at Fitton much better than he had the take-off, and Douglas suspected it was anticipation rather than flight terrors that had the young man looking so jittery as they prepared to disembark. 

He was still reassuring him, Arthur having leapt off the plane as soon as it was safe to do so, when Carolyn’s voice began to carry ever more loudly towards them. 

“What do you mean, he’s–?” Carolyn’s put-out expression was preceded by Arthur’s excited re-entry to the cabin by only a second. She spared Martin a brief glance before commanding Douglas: “My office. Now.” 

 

Arthur and Martin followed a discreet few paces behind. Martin was barefoot and hunched, fretfully twisting the sleeves of the oversized jumper Arthur had lent him; trying simultaneously not to trip over the trailing legs of his pyjama pants as he hobbled over the gritty asphalt. 

Arthur guided Martin into the MJN cabin and ensured he was comfortable on the couch, both of them trying valiantly to ignore the shouting coming from behind the office door. 

Carolyn’s outraged voice carried better than Douglas’s soothing rumble and she could be heard clearly denying MJN’s position as either a free taxi service or a charity. 

Arthur busied himself chattering in the kitchenette, making enough coffees for everyone and trying to distract Martin who was darting covert looks at the cabin door and tucking himself into a smaller and smaller shivering ball as the muffled fight went on. 

Eventually, it reached the point where Carolyn expressly threatened to fire Douglas altogether. 

Knowing full well this was an empty, and regular, bluff, Arthur began to properly relax, comfortable that the fight was nearly at a close and that it had moved into the Douglas-justifying-himself part of the discussion – which generally resulted in some kind of perk for Douglas _along_ with a solution to whatever problem had caused the fight in the first place. 

He turned to Martin with a cheery smile, but Martin was gone.


	9. Chapter 9

It didn’t take them long to find Martin. Not a lot of places he could get to with neither security clearance nor, as he soon discovered for himself, shoes. 

Douglas found him first; a trail of slightly bloodied footprints leading to a sadly crumpled heap sunk in front of the wire fence that bordered the junk yard. 

Douglas cursed himself for a fool as he cast a glance over the rusting wrecks in the lot beyond. Of course Martin would have overheard him and Carolyn arguing. Of course he would have tried to escape. And Douglas had been so caught up with getting him away from _Jack_ , he hadn’t thought to reassure him about the help that would be available to him in England. And, more specifically, in Fitton. 

He crouched down next to Martin just as Arthur ran up, a deeply unimpressed Carolyn striding in his wake. 

“Douglas.” To the uninitiated, Carolyn simply sounded annoyed, but Douglas recognised the protective undertone. “What were you thinking letting that poor boy run around out here after all he’s been through?” 

Martin was sitting with his arms wrapped around his folded legs, face buried in his knees, as hunched and small as he could make himself. At Carolyn’s words, his arms tightened, and Douglas put out a comforting hand. 

“Martin,” he said softly. “It’s all right. You’re okay. You’re not in trouble. _I’m_ not in trouble…” 

Carolyn let out a scoffing sound, but apparently even Martin could tell it was for show as he gradually uncoiled himself, squinting against the cold sunlight that lit the airfield. 

“Martin, I’m Carolyn. Douglas tells me you needed a ride home.” She spared her only pilot a hard look. “I’m given to understand, through Douglas’s rather dramatic story and …well… frankly, the state of you, that circumstances were dire.” 

She held up a hand to forestall both Douglas’s objection and Martin’s stuttering apology. “If I’ve learned anything since meeting, let alone _hiring_ Douglas, it’s that I shouldn’t ask too many questions. So. I’m assuming you don’t want the police involved?” 

Martin shook his head. 

“And you’re not hurt?” 

Another head shake. 

“Mute?” 

“N-no, ma’am.” 

“Right. Have you somewhere to stay?” 

Douglas rested his hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Yes. He does.” At Martin’s confused squeak he continued, “For as long as you need.” 

Carolyn levelled her protective-mother gaze at Martin, somehow also managing to send a warning glance to Douglas, who patted Martin’s shoulder and stood back, letting Carolyn speak to him quietly. 

Arthur had disappeared at some point but reappeared as Douglas watched Martin alternately frantically shaking and nodding his head in response to whatever Carolyn was saying. 

Douglas backed up a few paces to where Arthur was hovering with a large woolly bundle squashed in his hands. 

“A blanket. And socks,” he explained to Douglas’s raised eyebrow. “I don’t think any of us have shoes we can lend him, but he ought to have something to protect his feet.” 

“Quite right, Arthur,” said Douglas. “Good thinking.” 

They paused for a moment. 

“You weren’t just helping him play a prank, were you?” 

“No.” 

“Do you think he’ll be all right?” 

Douglas watched as Carolyn managed to coax what looked like a genuine smile from Martin. He thought about the determined creature who’d pushed his boat to shore; the ecstatic look on his face as he’d gazed at the stars after they’d landed on the beach. “I think so, Arthur. Eventually. Now he’s home.” 

 

  


***

 

Carolyn didn’t let them stay long after that. She took just long enough to berate Douglas for not being more considerate of Martin, before declaring that the stowaway was “entirely his problem” and sending them off home – having given Martin a slip of paper with her own contact details on it. 

Douglas retrieved his baggage and guided Martin to his car. Martin still had the blanket clutched over his head as a hood-cum-shield against either the sun – or, it occurred to Douglas belatedly, possibly the overwhelming expanse of _outside_ and _sky_. 

The drive back to his house was spent by Douglas talking Martin out of the fretful state he’d worked himself into, and reassuring him that he was welcome – but not obligated – to take the spare room in his overlarge two-bedroom flat for as long as he wanted. 

“You don’t know me, you have no reason to trust me. But if you don’t have any family,” he ignored the wince, “and no other friends you can stay with,” and the hard swallow, “then, please. It would be nice to have the company. The flat’s been a bit empty since my wife left a year or so ago. 

“I’ll give you a key and if you find you want to leave, to find your own space or make your own way, there’ll be no hard feelings.” 

He looked at Martin’s tight expression as he turned into the driveway of his building. “I imagine it might take you a little while to adjust to being…back. Not to mention sorting out all your paperwork after five years away.” He pulled the Lexus smoothly into a parking space with the ease of daily practise, and switched off the engine. “I’ll help as much or as little as you like.” 

Martin nodded cautiously, his teeth visibly clenched, the blanket now just draped around his shoulders. 

Douglas took off his seatbelt and pointed to the front door. “I’m just up there. Flat 3.” He got out and shut the car door behind him, retrieving his bags from the boot. 

He was gratified to hear the passenger door open behind him but, as he turned, it was obvious Martin’s reticence had not been simply due to fear or confusion. The poor man could barely stand. 

Douglas threw his bags back in the car to deal with later and dashed to Martin’s side just as he lost his grip on the car door that had been the only thing holding him up. His face was white and sheened with sweat. As Douglas wrapped one arm around his shoulders and the other around his waist, he could feel fine tremors shivering through the younger man’s body. He actually heard Martin grind his teeth as he pulled him to standing. 

“Can you walk?” 

Martin grunted, the shakes intensifying. 

“All right then. Hang on.” Wary of causing more pain, Douglas scooped Martin up, juggling his keys into position so he could unlock the front doors with ease, and pushing the button to lock the car as he strode towards the building. 

Martin might have been slight, but it was still an awkward climb up the stairs. Douglas maneuvered them through the front door and straight into the spare room where he lay Martin carefully down on the bed. 

Once released, Martin immediately folded in half, desperately kneading at his legs, practically sobbing in pain. 

“Cramps?” Douglas deduced. 

Marin whimpered the affirmative. “T-too much…” 

“After five years’ lack of use, I shouldn’t wonder. Hot water okay?” 

Martin was too pain-dumb to comprehend. 

“For you to soak in. Will it be okay?” 

“Oh. Y-yes.” 

“I’ll be right back.” 

There was an ensuite to Martin’s room, but that was nothing to the master bath. Taking a brief detour to slam the front door closed, Douglas set about filling the enormous spa bath with hot water. It would take a while to fill, so he ferreted about in the cabinet and found a bottle that would suit his needs, grabbed a couple of towels and went back to where Martin was desperately pressing at the muscles of his legs. 

“I’m running you a bath. The water, and the heat, should help. I think.” He rubbed his neck – what would he know about merman biology? “It will take a while to fill up, though. In the meantime, I’ve got this.” He held out the massage oil. “If you’d rather, you can use it on yourself, but it’s probably easier… and frankly, more effective, if you stretch out and let me do it. But I realise you may not be comf—“ 

“ _Pleeaaase…_ ” Martin’s eyes were dark and dull with agony and there seemed little point arguing further. Douglas spread the towel on the bed and guided Martin gently to lie back. 

By now Martin had pressed both hands over his face – either with pain or for privacy, Douglas couldn’t be sure. He gently tugged the sleep pants down and off, then peeled the socks from Martin’s wounded feet. They’d need attention too, but for now, he lay the second towel over Martin’s mid-section. He could actually see the muscles cramping under Martin’s luminescent skin. He ran a warm hand down Martin’s rock-hard thigh and winced in sympathy before pouring a generous amount of the oil into his hands to warm it. 

He began with long, soothing strokes, alternating between Martin’s legs. As the tightness very gradually eased, he was able to knead and loosen the knotted muscles a little further. 

Slowly Martin released the press of his hands from his face and simply draped an arm over his eyes, biting his lip in apparent relief. 

Douglas took a break to turn the water off in the bathroom and coaxed Martin to roll over onto his front. 

The knots were worse here, though the intensity of the pain had evidently lessened. He worked his way up from clenching calves to taut thighs before realising Martin’s whimpers had taken on a rather more languorous tone. 

It was like a switch in his head. Though he hadn’t been blind to the well-formed limbs under his hands, his focus had been entirely on healing; Martin’s pain all too obvious for him to consider anything but making it better. With a start, he realised his thumbs had progressed well under the towel and had slipped, without his say-so, under the legs of Martin’s borrowed boxer shorts to press indulgently into surprisingly luscious gluteal muscles. Though the muscles in question had certainly been causing pain, the reddening of Martin’s ears and his sudden silence suggested the massage of same was now causing an entirely different problem. 

The air was thick with tension. 

Douglas cleared his throat gruffly and ran a last soothing stroke down Martin’s calves. “Well, I think that should have done the trick for now. There’s a bath waiting for you in the other room but—” he stopped Martin’s awkward attempt to get up with a press to his shoulder “—first I need to see to your feet. You just lie there and relax for a moment. I need to treat those cuts and get the worst of the gravel out.” 

He didn’t think he had imagined the relieved sigh as Martin slumped back down, or the minute shift of his hips. 

His own walk to the bathroom was less than comfortable – physically or emotionally. 

When he returned to the bedroom with the medical kit, the few minutes’ break had helped dissipate the tension quite nicely. The ten minutes spent plucking tiny stones out of Martin’s sensitive feet and mopping stinging wounds, helped do away with the rest. 

“Are you all right to walk now, or do you want me to help you?” 

“I think I’m fine now,” Martin’s voice was a little lower than when they’d started, but clearer since being attacked with disinfectant. “Just point the way.” 

“Third door on your right, just off the kitchen.” Douglas said, waving an arm towards the bedroom door. “There’s a pile of towels and a robe in there already and I’ll leave some more clothes for you in here.” 

He left the room and headed to the kitchen to see what he could find for dinner, leaving Martin to make his way into the bathroom. 

He heard the door close and a relieved groan followed by a rather large splash. A few minutes later a shuddering graunch followed by Martin’s distinctive screech and more splashing suggested he’d found the on switch for the bubble jets. Certain he’d lost the man for the foreseeable future, Douglas took the opportunity to retrieve his possessions from the car, then hunt through the back of his wardrobe for some of his older, slimmer fitting clothes.


	10. Chapter 10

It took a little while — getting used to being free and back in the “real” world, with nothing, wasn’t going to be an overnight transition for Martin — but eventually Martin and Douglas settled into something of a routine. 

Martin turned out to be a fairly decent cook, once he got back into the swing of things. For all Douglas liked his finer gourmet delights, Martin was used to cooking on a budget. With no initial way to earn any money himself until his paperwork was sorted out, ¬Martin insisted on paying his keep the only way he could: by contributing to the household chores. Douglas’s lonely flat was suddenly, regularly, sparkling clean rather than tidily dull. He was sent off each day with a neatly packed lunch and greeted at home after a long flight with cosy cooking that warmed the flat to a homelike degree. 

As Martin gradually learned to relax, they discovered shared interests in films and crime novels and spent the evenings watching mysteries on the TV — none of which Martin had seen before. Noticing Martin mesmerised by the radio while he was washing up one evening, Douglas realised the young man’s imprisonment must have starved _all_ his senses. He consented, in a way he never normally would, to play the piano for a rapt Martin, for no other reason than to see the blush of joy and contentment on his face. 

If he also enjoyed the way Martin’s attention appeared captivated by Douglas’s fingers gliding over the keys, that was neither here nor there.  


 

But it wasn’t all rosy glow. It took a week before Martin stopped cowering at the sound of the flat door opening or closing. A little longer for him to stop flinching at the unfamiliar sounds of the neighbours and the neighbourhood itself. 

Without the adrenaline rush of escape driving him, Martin’s fear of the outdoors took vicious hold – something he was determined to quash immediately. It was days before he was able to spend more than a few minutes outside without having a panic attack, and several weeks before he could wander around Douglas’s quiet neighbourhood without recoiling at every sound or gust of wind. He admitted to Douglas that it was not being outside so much as the sheer openness of the sky above that overwhelmed him – Douglas lent him an old wide-brimmed hat that he’d used for gardening. It looked ridiculous, but served until Arthur gifted Martin with a hooded sweatshirt embroidered with the Red Arrows insignia. Douglas thought Martin’s face would crack that day, he smiled so broadly. 

Privately, Douglas was impressed with Martin’s determination. After the first time he’d found Martin folded up and shaking in the tiny courtyard garden, they had a serious talk about limits. While Martin had allowed Douglas to bundle him inside and coddle him with tea and blankets the once, he refused to allow it to continue and insisted Douglas let him break through that particular barrier himself – with no one hovering over his shoulder. Douglas agreed – on the understanding that Martin would restrict his efforts to times when Douglas was home. Just in case. 

When a car backfired and left Martin quivering behind the garden wall at the front of the building for 20 minutes, Douglas also bought a mobile phone for Martin and insisted he keep it with him. 

It wasn’t until Douglas found Martin asleep in the bottom of the full bath for the fifth morning in a row that he realised his attempts at coddling had themselves been arse-backwards. For all Martin hated feeling caged in, and kept curtains and windows flung open at all times; lights on to dissipate any sense that a room was akin to the dank, dark dungeon he’d been kept in, it was clear that underwater was where he felt _safe_. The best way to soothe Martin after a panic attack was to fill the bath and let him splash and float for an hour or so. 

For the first month or so, Martin’s bed in the spare room remained unslept in. 

 

On top of all this, Martin grew twitchy and occasionally snappish, clearly feeling trapped even in Douglas’s spacious flat, and frustrated at what he perceived as his own weakness. Douglas, quickly realising how much Martin hated the inevitable feeling of being indebted and useless, dug out all his flight manuals and helped Martin brush up his knowledge and, insofar as he could, his skills. 

With some help from his friends in high (dubious) places, Douglas also arranged for Martin’s various records and documentation to be reinstated and updated. There was little he could do to avoid the mandatory six-week waiting period for most things – given these papers _were_ (mostly) legal – but he managed to help Martin sidestep the complications that ought to have resulted from having no identification papers at all. All Martin’s licences and credit cards had been lost at sea with the contents of his wallet. Any other papers or records had long since been discarded by his old landlord who explained, with gruff apologies, that he’d been through several batches of tenants since Martin had lived there. 

Since it had “only” been five years, and no one had reported Martin missing, he hadn’t actually been declared legally dead and most of his records and accounts were frozen due to inactivity, rather than closed entirely. This collection of affairs was, to Douglas’s mind, both sad and convenient – made the more sad by the fact that Martin saw only the bright side of convenience, having clearly not expected to be missed. 

Even the company from which Martin had hired his shoddy plane had gone bust and the investigative tangle that would be caused by alerting them to Martin’s return was something neither Martin nor Douglas wanted to encourage. When Douglas quietly looked into it, it seemed the company was registered offshore in a tax haven and Martin’s crash was not their first “mishap”. The loss of a single plane – and customer – was nothing compared to the list of misdemeanours and known accidents (Martin’s having gone entirely unreported and undiscovered) already being investigated and the company was firmly buried under a thick cloud. Martin’s name was unlikely to cause a stir, even if anyone noticed. 

Martin would have to renew both his driving and piloting licences and, after so long, was well out of practice. But even once Martin was comfortable outside, they discovered just coping with crowds was challenge enough. 

 

This last problem was one of the easier to defeat, for all it shouldn’t have been. Douglas had seriously underestimated just how much Martin loved planes and flying, even though this passion was what had driven him to overcome his initial agoraphobia. A trip to the local _quiet_ shopping village had rendered Martin virtually mute and shaking, desperate to return to the flat he had been equally keen to leave only hours before. Five years in a secluded fish tank had reduced his ability to cope with the sheer noise and bustle of humanity… but they soon discovered that a crowded airport had the opposite effect. What had started as a simple test run — Douglas taking Martin out for what was essentially a sight-seeing trip — became a regular outing, with Douglas driving Martin to airfields whenever he had a break; letting the younger man drink in his fill of planes, ignoring the buzz of crowds around him. 

Martin’s enthusiasm was contagious and Douglas soon found his jaded view melting a little, seeing the marvel and majesty of flight anew through Martin’s wide eyes. 

After a few weeks of what Douglas referred to privately as “airport therapy”, they made it to a busy shopping centre and Martin didn’t flinch once. 

But after coming home once too often to find Martin sunk listlessly underwater in the bottom of the full bath where he’d clearly spent the entire day, it was clear to Douglas that being land-bound and jobless was getting to the merman. He soon took to bringing Martin to Fitton on standby days. They’d play word games in the cabin, wander around the airfield, and sometimes sit in Gertie so Martin could reacquaint himself with the controls of a real plane. 

When Martin’s replacement birth certificate finally came, he was able to unfreeze his meagre bank accounts and, after Carolyn had put the word around, managed to get work as a sort of man-without-a-van, doing odd jobs around the airfield. He didn’t earn much, but it was enough to get him back in the swing of things, and it gave him just a soupçon of confidence. Not to mention helping strengthen long unused muscles. 

Not that Douglas noticed that, of course. 

Martin and Arthur became firm friends, with Martin teaching Arthur a few simple recipes that could be managed with little more than a microwave – say, mid-flight – something Douglas personally felt was worth the risk of Martin’s rescue all in itself. 

They also spent a few sad days searching the junk yard for Martin’s van. They’d been lucky after three, but luck was a relative concept. Martin admitted the van had been in a bad way before he left – regularly breaking down, it was old when he’d “inherited” it from one of the family members he wouldn’t discuss. After five years abandoned in the elements it looked beyond repair. It was rusted and there were many parts missing; Martin had turned away in despair. 

But Douglas had seen the loving pat Martin had surreptitiously given the dented back panel. He had paid the meagre £100 for the hollowed-out shell and stored it in Gertie’s hangar. Martin swore to pay Douglas back as soon as he could, and if Larry at the junk yard found a few more jobs for Martin to do in exchange for spare van parts that just happened to be exactly what the Icarus wreck needed, Martin was never the wiser. 

 

***

 

Carolyn had been unexpectedly tolerant of Martin hanging around MJN (where tolerant meant including Martin when she was doling out insults and commands). However, she drew the line at letting him on-board any flights. Douglas had furnished her with only the barest of details as to Martin’s background, but from the glances she had given the young man, he suspected she had put 2 and 2 together and reached… Well… not exactly 4, but near enough. He’d heard enough about Gordon Shappey, and seen enough of Arthur’s reactions to the man’s phone calls, to deduce that neither Carolyn nor her son were unfamiliar with domestic violence. He was certain Carolyn assumed that he had rescued Martin from a similar situation…which, remembering the marks on Martin’s pale skin, wasn’t so very far from the truth. 

Tolerance of Martin, however, did not extend to tolerance of Douglas. Particularly not when it turned out that Douglas’s rescue mission affected MJN’s bottom line. 

“FIVE days, Douglas? Do you have any idea what that cost me?” 

“Since Arthur and I were stuck on the plane, not in a hotel, not all that much, I shouldn’t think.” 

“DON’T even start. FIVE DAYS’ delay in New York and I’ve yet to hear a decent explanation from you as to why.” 

The truth was, there wasn’t one. The delay had been entirely personal because Douglas had failed to fulfil the deal Jack had set up with his partners. That meant some very unhappy customs officials who’d been waiting to offload their pallets in return for the box Douglas was meant to have with him. 

The box he had deliberately left back in Bermuda. 

Both pilot and plane had thus been subjected to ridiculously thorough searches and screenings that still had Douglas wincing. Unnecessary repairs had been demanded before Gertie was cleared to fly and the only amusement Douglas could draw from this was that they had missed any real ones. Which only proved how malicious it all was. 

In any other circumstance, Douglas might have been able to talk or plot his way out of the situation, but Jack had more power (money) than he did, and these were his contacts, not Douglas’s. 

Douglas rode out Carolyn’s anger for once, making only token protests. Because they had a return trip to Bermuda coming up and he rather suspected _that_ wasn’t going to be a safe option, either. 

Carolyn paused in her shouting, suspicions roused by Douglas’s silence. “There’s something you’re not telling me. Don’t bother explaining this was one of your smuggling plans gone wrong.” 

She held up a hand as Douglas opened his mouth for precisely that purpose. “I’m not completely stupid. I worked _that_ out after you were delayed for ONE day. This is something more serious than your usual tricks.” She narrowed her eyes. “And there’s something else isn’t there?” 

Douglas sighed. “All right. Yes. There is. It’s about Bermuda.” 

Carolyn pursed her lips and sat back down in her chair. “This had better be good.” 

“I think you’ve guessed that Martin needed a bit more than a lift.” 

“Obviously. You’ve practically _adopted_ the boy. Yes.” 

Douglas winced at her choice of words. “He wasn’t safe. Where he was. I may have… snuck him out…” 

“I don’t understand what this has to do with—” 

“—He may have been involved with one of my… ahem…. business partners. Who, um, may or may not have quite strong objections.” 

“Oh, DOUGLAS.” Carolyn’s rage was not at all tempered by Douglas’s uncharacteristic stammering. 

“It’s, um. It’s not just New York.” He flicked his gaze to the wall chart where “ _Bermuda_ ” was written in large letters. “I’m um, I’m not sure it’s entirely safe for us to—” 

“For _us_? You mean, because of _your_ underhand business – no, I’m not talking about Martin, I’m talking about your _usual_ nefarious activities – because of that, you have now lost us a lucrative contract?” 

“Well…” Douglas tried to think of another way of phrasing it and failed. “Yes.” 

“And you’re sure I can’t just hire another pilot for the day?” 

“I’m rather certain my… _associate_ would take whatever he could get… if Gertie were to land there. It’s um… probably not worth the risk.” 

“I’m going to have to refund the client.” 

“I’m afraid so.” 

“He booked us for _three_ more trips this year.” 

“I’m sorry, Carolyn. If you’d—” 

“It will come out of _your_ pay cheque.” 

“Hey! You can’t—” 

“—FIVE DAYS, Douglas, during which we lost two other jobs. And now we’ve lost a repeat customer? Where do you imagine the money comes from to run this company? Perhaps THIS will help you reconsider your alternate career as a smuggler? Now get out of my office! I’ve some phone calls to make.” 

Thank goodness Martin had been working budgetary miracles in his kitchen. Three lots of alimony didn’t come cheap and this was one cost he hadn’t foreseen. But, as he wandered into the hangar to find Martin emerging from under the van, beguilingly daubed in oil and borrowed overalls half shucked and tied at his waist, Douglas thought it was all rather worthwhile.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Just over nine months later…_

“Douglas! Douglas?” 

The slam of the front door punctuated Martin’s exuberant arrival. 

Douglas glanced up from the stove where he was stirring a vibrant red sauce. 

Martin’ face was alight with joy as he entered the kitchen, tossing a marked up newspaper on the bench and making a beeline for the sink to wash the day’s moving jobs from his hands. He filled a glass with water. Douglas forced his gaze from the slender column of Martin’s desperately swallowing throat and waited for the younger man to settle himself against the counter and explain his excitement. 

“My old attic. It’s up for rent again!” Martin beamed expectantly at Douglas. “I can finally move out. I’ve got enough saved for the bond, and thanks to you and the chaps at the air field, the van business has taken off even better than it had before, so I can pay you and Carolyn and Arthur back for everything.” 

Douglas took a firmer hold of the spoon and forced the knot of selfish disappointment back down where it belonged. Skygod charm firmly in place, he met Martin’s shy grin with a proud smile of his own. “Well done, Martin. That’s… that’s just wonderful for you. You’ve got your old life back. Congratulations.” 

He bent to check the oven then hid in the fridge for a moment, ostensibly to check on dessert. “Oh, by the way,” he added casually, “some mail came for you today. If it’s what I think it is… well…” He caught Martin’s eye again as he shut the fridge and this time his own smaller smile was 100% genuine. 

He pushed the thick envelope towards Martin, who gasped at the printed seal on the outside. 

“Is this…?” 

“I suspect so.” 

“Do you think…?” 

“Only one way to find out.” 

Douglas leant back against the counter with his arms folded as Martin carefully tore open the envelope with visibly shaking hands. 

He would deny until his dying day that he teared up in sympathy with Martin as the young man looked up with gleaming eyes. “I did it, Douglas. I got my CPL. I’m a proper pilot.” 

“That you are, my fishy friend,” Douglas teased, pulling out the bottle of champagne he’d hidden earlier. “A proper pilot, in need of a proper celebration. I’ve already planned a special dinner and I know you’ll want to unwind a little first but…” He filled two flutes, one with champagne and one with sparkling water, before offering a toast to his soon-to-be-former lodger. “To the most determined and deserving man I know… may all your flights stay airborne.” 

They clinked glasses and drank, then Douglas shooed Martin into the bathroom to wash off the grime of the day while he finished preparing dinner. 

The familiar muffled sounds of the roaring spa jets and unmistakeable slap of Martin’s tail on the enamel bath edge were a soothing soundtrack to the rest of Douglas’s preparations and he sighed wistfully at the thought that soon he’d be back to masking the silence of an empty flat with the radio. 

He scooped veal and potatoes onto their plates and clunked them onto the table as he heard the water begin to drain from the bath. A quick mental smack brought him out of his doldrums and by the time Martin emerged, ruffling his auburn curls, Douglas was gesturing with the rocket salad and wishing Martin bon appetite. 

 

***

 

“Douglas.” 

“Yes, Arthur?” 

“Martin’s not really going to move out of your house, is he?” 

“Yes, of course he is. He needs his own space. Besides, he’ll be getting a proper job soon; who knows where he’ll need to be based?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Hasn’t he told you? He got his licence. He’ll be applying for airline jobs now. He won’t have time to hang around here any more.” 

“Oh.” 

Douglas peered over his newspaper to see Arthur looking a bit woebegone. 

“What did you think was going to happen, Arthur? That was the whole point of all of this: to help Martin get his life back on track. Well. He has. I’m sure you’ll still see each other. Just not…” 

“…Not here.” 

“That’s right.” 

“I always thought…” 

“What?” 

“Well. Since Nigel left. And Mum’s always having to refuse clients because we’ve only got one pilot. I just always thought Martin would come here. When he got his licence.” 

Douglas blinked. 

“Stupid. I know. I’m a clot.” 

“No… no, Arthur… you’re not.” 

“Really?” 

“Really. I mean. I don’t know if Martin _wants_ to fly a small charter plane…” 

That was rubbish. He knew Martin had a soft spot for the old Lockheed McDonell. And that he still wasn’t comfortable with crowds – preferring smaller, friendlier flights, rather than the larger, colder, impersonal commercial jets. 

But… 

“You haven’t spoken to your mother about this, have you?” 

“No. I thought it was obvious. I just assumed she’d have brought it up with Martin. Or you.” 

“Brought what up?” Carolyn’s voice as she emerged from her office, clutching an armload of files, was wary. 

“Arthur seems to be under the impression that Martin ought to be coming to work for you.” 

“Oh. That. Well. His interview, such as it is, is on Friday.” Carolyn looked shifty. “Didn’t he tell you?” 

“Well… no. To be honest, we haven’t spoken all that much, though.” It was true. Since Martin’s results had come in they’d both been rather busy – Martin with van work and hunting down furniture, sorting out paperwork for his new/old flat, and Douglas on flights. They’d both been too tired (sad) to chat much in the evenings. 

The part of Douglas that was delighted with this turn of events was overshadowed only slightly by the confusion as to why Martin hadn’t told him.


	12. Chapter 12

“I wanted it to be a surprise.” Martin looked awfully uncomfortable, tugging at the sleeves of Douglas’s old bomber jacket, which Douglas had given Martin to celebrate “becoming a real pilot”. 

“Did you.” That sounded colder that Douglas had intended, but his frustration was getting the better of him. A week since Carolyn had mentioned the interview, and Martin had still not said a word. Until Douglas goaded him after dinner. 

“And…” 

“And?” 

“Well…. the thing is… the interview. It, um…” 

Martin chewed distractingly at his lip. “The interview wasn’t for first officer, as it turned out. It was for … captain.” He’d bitten right through his lip now; the sudden bloom of blood bringing a shock of colour to his guilt-white face. 

“I see.” 

“Do you?” Martin sounded hesitantly relieved. 

“Not really.” The icy punch of betrayal hit Douglas low in the gut and twisted. He looked up and Martin took a step back. 

“Look, Martin, I think I made it pretty obvious that I was willing to do just about anything to help you to make up for my own past indiscretions, but honestly… I thought I’d been, well… quite generous. I hadn’t somehow expected that you’d repay me by _taking my job_!” 

Martin flinched at Douglas’s angered shout. “I didn’t mean…” 

“Did you not?” 

“It’s not…” Martin looked almost as distressed now, standing in front of Douglas, as he had when they’d been trying to evade capture in Jack’s house. He had his arms wrapped around himself protectively. “It wasn’t my idea,” he finished lamely. 

“Right. Carolyn’s, was it? This is more payback for me losing her that contract? Well there’s karma for you.” Douglas sank onto a kitchen chair. “I’m an old fool.” 

“Douglas—” 

“No. Save your breath, Martin. I thought we were friends. I’d hoped... Well, it doesn’t matter what I’d hoped. I thought we were friends, at least. But I said from the start, this was a no strings arrangement. No obligation. You don’t owe me anything—” 

“—DOUGLAS!” Martin’s voice was firmer now and he knelt in front of Douglas’s chair, gripping his knee to command his attention. “I didn’t _take_ the job. Of course I owe you _EVERYTHING_. And you _must_ know how I .... That is, you can’t possibly think I would repay you by doing…that?” 

Douglas shifted a little under Martin’s heartfelt gaze. 

“I told Carolyn there was no way, and she said that was the only job that was on offer, so…” Martin shrugged a little sadly. “That’s the end of that dream, I’m afraid. I didn’t… I didn’t want to leave. I was so excited when she offered me the interview. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather fly with.” 

“You don’t really _know_ anyone else,” Douglas countered gently, squeezing his friend’s hand in apology. “But I don’t understand why Carolyn put such a proposal forward?” 

“To test me, maybe? She has… she has helped me out a lot.” 

Douglas frowned. That didn’t quite make sense, since she’d offered Martin the chance in the first place. For all _he_ might have wobbled in his own faith a moment ago, _she_ must have known Martin would not be comfortable usurping Douglas. 

“What will you do now?” 

“I’ve got a few other interviews lined up with some commercial airlines. I’m hoping something will come of one of those. And in the meantime,” Martin stood and stretched, smiling hesitantly back at Douglas, “I’ll finish packing and get out of your hair. A month or so and it’ll be like I was never here!” 

And like that, the icy knot was back. Douglas swallowed back the retort that _that_ was his worst nightmare and stood to pat Martin cheeringly on the back, before sweeping from the room.  


 

Behind him, Martin let the façade of bright confidence drop and crumpled dejectedly into the abandoned kitchen chair. 

***

  


“Carolyn! I want a word.” 

“Oh, good. A dream come true. Douglas, can’t it wait?” 

“No,” said Douglas, steering Carolyn by one arm into her office, “it can’t.” 

“Well!” As Douglas shut the door she tugged out of his grip and planted herself in her chair. “You had better have a supremely good reason for this, First Officer Richardson.” 

“That.” Douglas pointed at her accusingly. “That right there. What are you playing at?” 

“Whatever do you mean?” The challenging smirk betrayed the entirely false innocent tone. 

“Martin’s interview. What the hell was that? Were you testing him?” 

“Him? No. Not for a second. I knew he wouldn’t willingly take that position. He’ll reach for the clouds, that boy, but there’s no way he’d sacrifice _you_ to get there; not even for someone who helped him get all those flying hours.” She arched a self-satisfied brow. 

“You got him…? Hang on. Then what…?” 

“ _You_. I was testing you. You _have_ been demoted, Douglas. We’ve lost significant business, thanks to you, and don’t think I haven’t noticed the odd extra crate making its way in and out of the cargo hold again. I told you that you needed to rethink your moonlighting efforts and you ignored me. So. I can’t actually run an airline with no pilots. But I can demote you. That is happening. Has happened. Live with it.” 

Douglas gaped unattractively. Mentally ran through a list of arguments that would resolve this in his favour. Carolyn eyed him sharply. 

“Now, I think it is obvious to everyone except, perhaps, the man himself that you would do anything for that boy. What I didn’t know was why, or where your altruistic streak ended. I needed to know whether you would accept him in your position; whether you’d be able to work together properly. The _test_ was for you.” 

“Oh.” Douglas’s artillery of counterpoints crashed into each other like so many dominoes, fallen under the weight of his own selfishness. 

“Oh?” 

“I think I… might have failed that one.” 

Carolyn rolled her eyes. 

“I…we got everything sorted out…. but only because he told me he turned the position down. Before that I…rather accused him of using me and taking my job.” 

If he’d felt guilty during the argument, it was nothing to how he felt under Carolyn’s knowing gaze. 

“Oh. Douglas. You have got it bad.” 

“What?” His queasily roiling gut clenched. 

“Besotted, I’d say.” 

“What do you—” 

“—At first I thought it was pity driving you to look out for him. Then I thought you were making up for having to be an absentee father to your own daughter. But I have been watching you moon after him for nearly a year. What you don’t seem to have noticed is the enormous doe eyes he makes at _you_.” 

Douglas stared blankly at his boss. 

“ I’ll be honest, that’s quite a good reason not to consider taking Martin on at all, but I need a second pilot and there aren’t many willing to take the wages I’m offering. You two get along, or you usually do. Now. I don’t need two first officers, but I do need a new captain. You’re not in the running, but Martin is. Job’s his if he wants it, so what do you think?” 

***

  


“I think the cap looks rather well on you… _sir_.” Two weeks after the humiliating conversation in Carolyn’s office, Douglas propped himself against the doorway to Martin’s room where the newly minted captain had been fussing in front of the mirror for at least 30 minutes. 

“I just…I just want to make sure that… that I look… you know… _professional_.” 

Martin’s panicky gaze met Douglas’s languid one in the reflection. 

“You _do_ remember which company you’re working for, Captain? And it’s just a cargo flight today. I don’t think the business exec’s furniture is going to care all that much _how_ well you’ve polished the braid on your epaulets.” 

“No, but it’s the principle…” 

Douglas pushed himself upright and walked over to where Martin stood. “Is it, indeed?” 

He straightened Martin’s tie and made a show of brushing at his shoulders then met his gaze in the mirror once more. “Or is it just the novelty of a real pilot’s uniform?” 

The stare went on just a hint too long. Martin’s cheeks started to go a little pink and Douglas belatedly realised he was still clutching the other man’s shoulders. “Honestly, Martin, you’re like a child on his first day at a new school,” he bluffed, releasing Martin with a deliberately casual shoulder slap and striding out of the room. 

He grabbed his own flight bag from the stool in the kitchen and picked up the two lunchboxes he’d left on the counter, tossing one at Martin as he wandered in, still adjusting the tilt of his cap. “A packed lunch for you, sir.” 

“But I thought Arthur was getting better at catering?” 

“Better, certainly. But still given to flights of fancy. Today is your first day as our captain; I suspect that will put Arthur in celebratory mood and as you may recall, there is nothing more terrifying than one of Arthur’s ‘special meals’. What you have there are emergency provisions.”


	13. Chapter 13

To no one’s surprise except, perhaps, Martin’s, the flight was an uneventful success. Even Arthur had kowtowed to Carolyn’s commands (probably because she was on board) and supplied simple and edible meals of pasta and rice… which meant the emergency provisions were not actually necessary. 

Any lingering resentment Douglas may have had over Martin “taking his job” was extinguished by the look of sheer, innocent joy on his friend’s face when he took control for the first time as captain. Which didn’t stop Douglas from making a few judicious digs at the tremulous tone with which he addressed first the cabin (“It’s Carolyn and Arthur, Martin. How can _they_ make you nervous?”) and then ATC. (“Well, it’s a good job we do use the phonetic alphabet, _sir_. With a stammer like that there’d be no end of confusion which plane they were speaking to.”) Martin’s resulting defensive irritation served to simultaneously entertain Douglas and distract Martin from his first flight nerves — allowing him to land them almost completely smoothly at LAX. 

All was well until they got to the hotel, where Carolyn had booked twin rooms for herself and Arthur, and Martin and Douglas. The hotel wasn’t actually too bad. Still a bit grimy around the edges, but the rooms themselves were clean, if shabby, and far better than the first hotel in which Martin had stayed with Douglas in Bermuda. 

Except. 

“Oh,” said Martin, looking at the tiny bathroom with its sink, toilet…and narrow shower stall. “Oh well. Never mind.” He shrugged and walked back to the room where the air conditioner croaked halfheartedly; dust motes visible in the almost tangible air. 

Douglas looked at him worriedly as he peeled off his own jacket. “Martin, I don’t know about you, but after that 11-hour flight I am desperate for a shower. I can guarantee we’ll both need one after a little time in this muggy room. And I can’t help thinking that’s likely to cause you a few…problems.” 

Martin laughed. “Honestly, Douglas. It will be no problem at all. I’m used to it. I’ve been spoilt, living with you. You don’t think everyone has such massive baths, do you?” 

“Not everyone, certainly, but—” 

“When I lived in the share house, sure, there was a bath there, but I was sharing with a bunch of students and their various friends and hangers-on. I could never risk _using_ it. People were always walking in by accident. Dodgy lock. Landlord’s fixed up the attic now, but it’s just a tiny ensuite with a loo and a sink. Means I won’t have to share but this—” he waved a hand at the bathroom “—is luxury compared to that, really.” He smiled at Douglas, who was flabbergasted. 

“Then why are you mov—” 

“I have to, Douglas. It’s time.” Martin flushed. “I can’t…If we’re going to work together, I have to…keep things professional. And,” his tone grew more pompous, “if I’m going to be your captain I need to be standing on my own two feet.” His haughty expression dared Douglas to comment on his choice of words. 

This knot of internal discomfort was becoming all too familiar. Douglas swallowed tightly. He couldn’t fault any of Martin’s reasons. They were all sound, really. “I do understand really. Time to let you fly the nest, as it were.” He tossed Martin a hollow smile. “I…it sounds patronising to say this, but please don’t… I’m proud of you, Martin. And while I don’t agree that it would be _un_ professional for us to continue as flatmates just because we’re working together, I do realise you need to get out. God knows,” he tried for a laugh, “I wouldn’t want to smother you.” 

His own poor choice of words made him wince to suppress a pleasant shudder. He barely noticed as Martin drew in a peculiar little gasp before he recovered and shot Douglas a look. “We’ve never just been flatmates, Douglas. B-but… thank you. For understanding. I don’t… God. It would be so easy to stay with you. But I can’t take advantage. I need to get back to my real life. Get used to being alone again.” A different, darker look flashed across his face, but it was gone so fast Douglas knew better than to pry. 

“Not _alone_ , Martin. Just independent.” 

 

In the end, Douglas was the only one to shower properly before they went out for the evening to find a meal. They met up with Carolyn and Arthur and fulfilled Arthur’s desire for a “proper American burger” (ie: something gargantuan dripping with oddly vivid cheese and sauce) before retiring for the night. 

Douglas managed to jimmy open the room’s murky window, letting in cooler air than the air conditioner was managing to choke out, while Martin rifled through his bag to retrieve some sleep clothes and disappeared into the bathroom. 

Douglas heard the water start and a few small clatters then… after a few minutes … rather a lot of thumping and a shout… an enormous crash and Martin’s squawk. He leapt off the bed and threw himself into the bathroom to find Martin sprawled awkwardly across the floor, half in, half out of the stall, the detachable shower head clutched in one hand, water spraying across the room in an arc. His tail twitched wetly at the foot of the sink and Martin himself looked rather dazed, half propped against the shower wall. 

There wasn’t really room for two men in the bathroom, but Douglas managed to balance well enough to lean over and turn off the taps. Expecting to hear someone at the door any moment after such a racket, he retrieved the towel, which had at least avoided the worst of the splashing and, worrying more about injury and discovery than the intimacy of the act, began to pat Martin’s tail dry. 

Martin’s blinks gradually grew a little more focused and he leaned forward to tug the towel out of Douglas’s hands, refusing to meet his gaze. 

Douglas pulled his hands away immediately. “Are you all right?” 

Martin nodded, still looking down, towel clutched protectively at his waist, a full blush quickly restoring colour to his pallid cheeks as well as his throat and chest. 

Douglas patted Martin’s fluke, barely noticing as it transformed beneath his hand, and closed the door as he left the bathroom, muttering words like “stupid” and “stubborn”. 

 

***

  


 

“You’re right, you know,” Martin said conversationally as he hobbled out of the bathroom 20 minutes later, having apparently managed a sponge bath using a flannel and a sink full of water. 

He was facing Douglas, but staring directly at his shoulder as he sank down onto his bed. 

“Right about what?” Douglas deliberately didn’t look up from the book he wasn’t reading. 

“I’m stubborn. And possibly stupid. But definitely stubborn. That’s why I’m… well. That’s why my family… left me.” 

Douglas blinked at the page in front of him, then shut the book and turned to give Martin his full attention. 

“Left you?” 

Martin still wouldn’t look Douglas in the eye. He was picking at the ugly bedspread. This all felt oddly reminiscent of the first time they’d sat together and Douglas wondered if Martin had deliberately chosen this setting to make another revelation. 

“I’d _always_ wanted to fly. Even when I was little. I used to get in trouble all the time for… well for surfacing too often and for too long. Just staring at the sky. The first time I saw a bird I was fascinated. But the first time I saw a _plane_ … 

“Most of us don’t go on land. Ever. But sometimes… some of us go on what I guess you’d call a pilgrimage. That’s what my dad did. He took a year to travel dry land. That’s… that’s where the van came from. It’s how he travelled and earned the money to travel while he was up here.” Martin gestured vaguely at what Douglas assumed was “land”. “But 12 months is kind of the limit. After that…. 

“Anyway…. he was the most supportive person in my family. So we agreed that I could go and do the same thing. Only…. I really wasn’t allowed to get too involved in human society, so to speak. We’re supposed to lay low. Flying was never supposed to be an option— when you’ve got limited time, you can’t really do things like that. Except I took my year and I… spent it learning and researching and I told my family what I wanted to do. That I wanted to be a pilot. They were furious. And scared, I think. Understandably, really – what happened to me with your friend is our worst nightmare…. and even tonight. You’ve seen how hard it can be to adapt. How easy it could be for me to be caught. So they told me I had to choose. Told me they’d cut me off. I think we all thought it was a bluff. They didn’t think I’d leave and I didn’t think they’d cut me off. But… I couldn’t give up my dream. So I left. And whenever I’ve been back to the water there’s been… no one.” 

Douglas had clenched his fists in the sheet as Martin spoke. He leaned forward to say something; anything. But Martin continued grimly. 

“When I crashed I knew there was no way they wouldn’t have found out what happened. There are…. ways, among our people. But not once was there any sign anyone ever tried to find me or rescue me. In five years. Which is fine. I understand. They have to protect, god, everyone, not just my family. But… so. Stubborn.” He nodded to himself and looked up at Douglas at last. “I am. In order to fly, I have given up everything. And that’s okay. And I’d do it again. And it might be a bit stupid and sometimes it means things like this—” he waved a bruised ankle in Douglas’s direction. “And sometimes it’s been hard—” he rubbed a hand over the fading scars on his arm. “But,” he finally looked Douglas directly in the eye. “It’s been totally worth every second to get where I am now.”


	14. Chapter 14

“I’m glad, Martin. A little sorry to hear it… but… glad you’re happy with where you’ve ended up. For what it’s worth I’m… glad we met, too.” 

How many times had he used the word glad in that sentence? A bit Pollyannaish. If he’d been Martin he’d have taken advantage of the opportunity to lambast himself for such stilted verbosity. But he wasn’t Martin. 

Never had a tiny room seemed so vast. Staring into Martin’s eyes, he knew, on an intellectual level, that the other bed was barely more than an arm’s stretch away. 

It could have been an ocean between them. He felt his own heart thumping far too hard in his chest and was vaguely aware of Martin making an abortive movement to lean forward just as he, unthinkingly, moved back on his own bed, away from what his every instinct screamed was danger. 

Nearly every instinct. The squeeze he felt at Martin’s subsequent downcast look was sharper, heavier and colder than the thrum of fear had been. 

Martin flicked off the light as he tucked himself under the covers on the other side of the room, wishing Douglas a soft “good night.” 

It was another two hours before Douglas managed to switch off his conflicted emotions and force himself to sleep, Martin’s words on a loop in his head: _“I have to keep things professional.”_

 

***

  


 

The next morning was tinged with the sort of awkwardness that can only come with the choppy blend of spoken and unspoken confessions. Martin was clearly tense about having revealed so much of his life story the night before – and perhaps still a little embarrassed about his minor accident – and both men were on edge from the weight of unclaimed emotions. 

Dreading a rather long flight full of such tension, Douglas spent their breakfast time summoning up a small cache of courage. When he and Martin got back to their room, he managed to yank the smaller man into an awkward, and not entirely consensual, bear hug. 

With Martin’s face buried in his shoulder, Douglas gained the advantage of not having to make eye contact. He quashed Martin’s muffled squeak by tightening his hold. 

“I just wanted to say thank you, Martin. For trusting me with your story last night. And for staying with me all these months. I know you need to leave, and despite what I may have implied last night, I know that, _of course_ , you can do it all on your own. I know you don’t need _me_. But I ne— That is, I’ve enjoyed having someone to look after. And I know I may have overstepped the bounds occasionally—“ 

He ignored the muffled _“Like now, for instance?”_ muttered into his neck, not least because Martin’s limp arms had finally come up to encircle him too. 

“—But I may just need you to forgive a lonely old man his fatherly instincts.” There would have been more but Martin’s arms tightened at that, even as Douglas bit his own lip at his misdirection. 

Martin let out a choking sound and Douglas immediately pushed the other man away to look him in the face. 

“ _Fatherly?_ ” 

“Yes?” He hadn’t meant that to come out as a question. 

“All this time, I thought we… And _Arthur_ said… but you…. really? 

Douglas couldn’t tell if Martin was on the verge of tears or laughter but it was Martin who said: “Wow. I-I guess after five years I am really rubbish at reading people. Not… not that I was sure or anything. And n-not that I was ever particularly good at it. I’m… goodness. I’m terribly sorry, Douglas.” 

Anguished, then. But… “What —though I dread to ask —did Arthur say to you?” 

“Oh. No it… it doesn’t matter.” Martin was fidgeting now and clearly extremely uncomfortable, his colour high in a way that suggested panicky sweating. 

Having already pressured the poor man into more physical contact that was wise – or had been asked for – Douglas released Martin’s arms (he hadn’t even realised he’d still been clutching them) and ran a casual hand through his own hair. 

Martin, for whatever reason, seemed to blush ever-deeper watching this, before turning to gather up the rest of his belongings and making a muttered statement that he’d see Douglas downstairs. 

 

“Well. I see you mucked that right up, Douglas,” said Carolyn, coincidentally leaving her room at the same time Douglas left his some 15 minutes later. 

Douglas affected a confused look which was met with a simultaneous eyebrow arch and eye-roll from Carolyn. 

“He ran past like a bat out of hell just as Arthur was taking his stuff downstairs. Do you want to tell me what happened?” 

“Not… particularly.” 

“Well that’s a relief. I don’t particularly want to hear it. He’s not resigning, is he?” 

Douglas blinked. “No. I don’t think so.” 

“Good. And you’re not either.” 

“That wasn’t a question.” 

“No. It wasn’t. Well picked. I’ve got two pilots, that’s all that really matters. If you can sort it out though, Douglas, do.” She gave him a patented Meaningful Look and strode off down the corridor with a subtle head tilt that suggested she was taking the lift and he ought to use the stairs to the left. 

 

“I don’t understand, Douglas.” 

He’d made it all of five steps down the staircase before Arthur sidelined him with earnest puppy-dog eyes and the sort of tone that suggested Help was either imminent or something for which Arthur may yet need to apologise . 

“What’s happened, Arthur?” As if he couldn’t guess. He kept walking down, Arthur trailing urgently behind. 

“Well I don’t know. Skip wouldn’t say. But he says he’s still moving out.” 

“Skip?” 

“Skipper…you know, Captain? Martin! I’m calling him Skip.” 

“Right…” 

“Why is he moving out?” 

“We’ve been over this, Arthur. I thought you understood? And Martin’s working with MJN now, so you’ll see him all the time.” 

“Yeah, but that’s not the point. I mean, you don’t want him to move out—” 

“—I—” 

“—And he doesn’t want to move out.” 

“—He _really_ does, Arthur.” 

“No, but, not really. And, well, I mean you obviously both fancy each other—” 

Douglas paused, one hand on the banister. “Hang on. What?” 

“It’s obvious, Douglas,” Arthur waved a hand and tripped down a step. “All those things you’ve done for Martin.” 

“That’s just—” 

“—And the way you look at him.” 

“Now hang _on_ —” 

“—And the way he looks at _you_ —” 

“—Arthur.” 

Arthur finally slowed his high-speed explanation/descent and looked at Douglas standing on the step above him. 

“Arthur. What have you done?” 

“Nothing!” 

“Arthur?” Douglas warily recommenced his own descent as Arthur backed cautiously down the stairs before him. 

“Well. I just… _You_ obviously weren’t going to say anything.” 

“Of course not!” 

“And Martin didn’t realise what it meant when you gave him that old flight jacket of yours.” 

“—I…” 

“And he _loves_ that jacket, Douglas. And I know you do, too.” 

“You—” 

“And _he_ wasn’t going to say anything.” 

“It would be unprofessional!” cried Douglas, just as Arthur explained, “So I just dropped a few hints.” 

They’d reached the foyer now, which had the sort of pleasing acoustics that allowed both their voices to carry. 

Although thinking about it, Douglas realised their voices had probably been carrying most of the way down the last flight of stairs. 

A thought which was rather verified by the irritably triumphant look on Carolyn’s face, where she stood at the reception desk. 

By contrast, Martin was folded into one of the uncomfortable chairs next to the luggage, face buried in his hands. 

He didn’t look up as Douglas and Arthur made their way over. 

So much for a relaxing flight home.


	15. Chapter 15

“Not now, Douglas,” was the only response Martin gave Douglas’s half-hearted attempt to speak on their way out to the taxi. 

 

And “Not while we’re working,” was delivered with a weary sigh when he made a second attempt, half an hour after take-off. 

 

Since things were a little too awkward for word games, and Martin refused to rise to any of Douglas’s quips, the 11-hour trip slowly but surely stretched to three days. Or felt like it. Even Arthur’s occasional visits, punctuating the silence with offers of coffee or meals, did little to ease the tension. The atmosphere, already thick with Impending Conversation gained a heavy blanket of guilt as Arthur fretted himself into subdued caution. 

Finally they made it home, after a drive that was, if possible, even more tense than the flight, lacking as it was any possibility of Arthur or Carolyn popping in from the back and offering respite (or, in Carolyn’s case, rebuke). 

Douglas had barely turned the engine off before Martin had removed his seat belt and thrown himself out of the car like it was on fire. 

Neither that, nor the way he was tearing at his hair, cap clutched in his other hand, boded well. 

Douglas slowly removed their bags from the back of the car and walked towards the front door. He breathed out slightly as Martin appeared to calm and follow him in. 

No sooner had they made it into the flat than Martin whirled on Douglas. 

“Explain.” 

Douglas sighed. “Which bit, precisely?” 

“Th-the jacket. Is that…is that right? Did you give me something… valuable?” 

“Not _valuable_ , Martin. At least, not like that. More….meaningful. But not… I didn’t mean—” 

“Didn’t you?” 

Martin’s face was anxious. 

Douglas wished he could interpret which of the possible answers he might give was causing the anxiety. And which would smooth it away. 

“Not…When I gave it to you it was as I said. _My_ father gave it to me when I graduated. I…it doesn’t fit me any more, and it’s unlikely it ever will again. I thought… well I wanted to give you something _important_ when you passed everything and I… suppose I thought maybe my old jacket, second-hand though it is, might be a bit more meaningful than anything I could _buy_ you.” He cleared his throat. “We go back, me and that jacket. Had some good times.” He grinned, teasingly. “I rather hoped it would signify the start of some good times for you. In your new life. Like it did me. Back then.” 

Martin’s expression was impossible to read. “Vintage. Not second-hand. And… those were…all the things I thought – felt – about the gift. Thank you, Douglas. Arthur’s right. I do love it.” 

There was a long pause. 

The tension seemed to have eased only inasmuch as they were talking. 

They were still standing in the foyer. Douglas made a move into the living room and was reminded, with a visual assault, that this was where Martin had stacked his few meagre boxes of belongings. Ready to move out. Tomorrow. 

Whatever jollity he’d conjured up to break the tension left him in a great huff and he found himself slumping down into the nearest armchair. 

Martin was still standing in the foyer behind the chair. “I can’t stay.” 

“I know.” 

The sound of footsteps getting closer, then Martin was standing next to the chair. He crouched so he could look Douglas full in the face. Something they hadn’t done since the night before. 

“That jacket is the nicest, most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given me.” 

“I’m sure if _your_ father—“ 

“Please don’t do that.” 

Douglas shut his mouth. Martin rested a – slightly trembling – hand on Douglas’s arm. 

“Don’t try to turn this into…whatever you’re trying to do. I…may be reading this all wrong, but I hope to god I’m not.” Martin’s hand tightened. 

Douglas swallowed and nodded slightly. 

“Douglas, I can’t stay, because it would be unprofessional w-when I... B-because I think…I…probably love you. And I-I’m pretty sure…I think—” 

“—I love you too?” Douglas placed his own hand over Martin’s without breaking their gaze. “We may neither of us be from Ipswich, but I think Arthur has understood us quite well.” 

Martin exhaled shakily. “—And if…so…y-yes…” He quirked a hesitant half smile. “…so if that’s the c-case, then I think…m-maybe…” 

“That living together _and_ working together, particularly when I’m the person who rescued you, and _especially_ when you’re trying to restart your life, would be a spectacularly poor decision?” 

“I…Yes.” Martin was biting his lip in the way he always did when he was nervous. 

“You’re right. And as the veteran of three marriages, I’m inclined to take the cautious route. I…I wouldn’t want to lose you, Martin. As a friend. Let alone anything else.” Douglas slid his hand under Martin’s so they could entwine their fingers briefly. 

And there it was… that was the answer that smoothed away the anxious look. 

“I think I should leave tonight.” 

A little something tore inside Douglas, even as he nodded. “You’re probably right. It’s a bit…” 

“Tense?” 

“Yes.” He smiled at Martin and gave his fingers a final squeeze as they both stood. “Do you need a hand with anything?” He waved at the boxes. 

“No. There’s just these and I’ve…already left some furniture at the attic. I can… wow. I guess I can just go.” 

“I guess you can.” 

Martin was still holding his ridiculous cap, but now he had it gripped in both hands as he wavered, looking a little lost, in the middle of Douglas’s lounge room. 

“You can come b—” 

“—I need to know it’s real!” Martin burst out. 

“I’m sorry?” 

“It’s not just about being professional and taking it _slow_. We’ve lived together for nearly a year. I just… I need to know that what I… what _we_ feel isn’t some kind of Stockholm Syndrome.” 

“Stockholm…?” Douglas actually felt the colour leave his face as a sensation of ice washed over him. “ _Martin_! You don’t feel… god, please tell me you haven’t felt trapped this whole—” 

“NO!” Martin took a frantic step forward. “No, of course not. I just meant. Well… I _was_ sort of trapped. At first. By circumstance, not by you. But you’ve been so kind and so generous and I need to make sure…” 

Douglas could feel he was almost shaking with relief. “No. You’re right, Martin. That’s – I meant what I said. This,” he gestured between them, “would be a bad idea.” 

Martin seemed to wilt a little. 

“Right now,” he clarified. “Perhaps we could take some time to see how things look, now you’re back in the real world?” 

His words were all sense. His hands, however, were clenched at his sides to prevent him from grabbing Martin and clutching him tight. 

He was concentrating so hard on not taking what he wanted that he didn’t even notice Martin had drifted closer. 

“I think that’s an excellent suggestion, Douglas. A-and I am going to go. But I just want…if you don’t mind… I’d j-just like to make sure I have all the information I require…so I can… _assess_.” 

Before Douglas had time to react, Martin had tossed his cap onto the top of one of the moving boxes and wrapped a hand around his neck, pulling him insistently down. 

After that, Douglas was, quite literally, on autopilot, unclenching his fists and folding Martin into an embrace as their mouths met in a warm, soft kiss. 

Martin’s lips, so often bitten in distress, were exactly as luscious as he’d imagined. He captured them several times in increasingly less chaste kisses before they pulled tighter into the hug; hot, damp breaths panting into each other’s ears. 

Martin was trembling. Douglas was _sure_ it was Martin doing the trembling. He rubbed a hand soothingly over his back, even as Martin squeezed harder and pressed a kiss to Douglas’s throat. 

But eventually, they had to part. 

“Well,” Douglas’s voice was hoarse as Martin straightened his jacket. “I hope you got everything you needed, Captain.” 

Martin was as flushed as he’d ever seen him, but he managed a steady, heated stare. “I think that should do for a start, First Officer Richardson.” He crouched to pick up two stacked boxes. “For now.” 

Douglas huffed a laugh as he grabbed the door keys and bent to pick up the final box with Martin’s cap still propped on its top, then followed Martin out the front door and down to his van.


	16. Chapter 16

It wasn’t so bad, really. Douglas decided. His flat was just as empty as he remembered and it seemed a little greyer without Martin’s nervous chatter livening up the evenings. He missed the subtle thunder of the bubble jets that had echoed into the kitchen from the bathroom, providing a hum of background noise to Douglas’s nightly dinner preparations as Martin partook of a post-van-job soak. He’d got back primary control of sofa and TV remote, and was free to play his piano without a captive audience… but he’d rather got used to competing with Martin to solve their nightly murder mysteries, and somehow playing piano alone just felt lonely without that certain gaze fixed upon him. 

On the other hand he no longer had to hide his feelings. He was careful not to flirt or provoke, at least in the first few weeks after Martin left, but there was an unspoken acceptance of their shared attraction. So if Douglas spent too long admiring the way the sunset beyond the plane windows seemed to set his captain’s hair alight, or was distracted by the way Martin caressed the yoke with slender fingers, that was nothing. Because he caught Martin, almost as often, gazing in his direction, plump lip caught in his teeth, a thoughtful expression on his face. 

So he didn’t push. 

Much. 

 

***

 

Martin, it had to be said, was clearly thriving. Mostly. His grab of independence had seen his confidence flourish. He was a little more cocky at work, a little more sure of himself. 

The attention he’d shown his studies turned out to be a natural inclination and not just a consequence of his desire to reclaim his life. And Douglas had underestimated just how ashamed Martin was to be living with him. Douglas had regarded them as flatmates, especially in the last few months. “Taking charity” was how Martin had described it. 

Now he’d moved out, Martin seemed to have regained a previously unimagined sense of pride and pedantry. He appeared less intimidated by co-workers and wilfully determined that all the rules and regulations he’d memorised (which was all of them – many of which Douglas hadn’t thought about for years and considered suggested guidelines at best) were to be followed religiously. Not even Dirk or Carl were safe from Martin’s prim (though doomed) demands to “do things by the book”. 

He tried it once on Carolyn. The less said about that the better. 

He had mostly given up trying to correct Douglas, who shook most suggestions off with a laconic eyebrow, but it was also clear Martin’s heart was not really in it. Both of them remembered how it was that Martin had come to be Douglas’s superior in the first place. 

But for all this newfound confidence – which largely amused Douglas, even as it irritated everyone else – it was equally obvious that Martin was not thriving in _all_ areas. 

At first it was just the weight loss Douglas noticed. But soon he realised that Martin’s complexion was starting to look less milky white and more… dull grey. He had purpling circles under his eyes. 

And yet, he was cheerful, and walking tall. Or as tall as a relatively short man could. And he was clearly _happy_. And he certainly wouldn’t accept anything that could be perceived as charity. Not again. 

But he might accept romance. And if there was one thing Douglas “Skygod” Richardson knew, it was romance. 

 

Douglas started slowly. A meal out after a flight, just in the hotel. Carolyn and Arthur having been conveniently dispatched elsewhere (by way of Douglas carefully and manipulatively telling Arthur about the local tourist sites and leaving him to press Carolyn into going with him). Douglas kept it casual – a meal that was easily interpreted as two colleagues having dinner in the bar, but assured Martin he’d foot the bill so they could have something a little nicer than Carolyn’s budget would afford them, and encouraged him to have some wine and relax. It wasn’t quite a date, but they lingered over dessert and gazed at each other a lot longer than any colleagues would. And afterwards, when they went up to their separate rooms, there was an almost-moment that ended with heated looks and clasped hands…but nothing more. 

After that, Douglas took to inviting Martin over for dinner once a week, as well as taking advantage of any stopovers they had. 

It wasn’t entirely altruistic but Douglas only turned on the Skygod charm a touch. As much as he wanted to wine and dine and _seduce_ Martin; as much as he wanted to look after him – and he _did_ , because the way the younger man put away his food made it obvious that living independently didn’t lend itself to decent meals – the truth was it was Martin’s company Douglas missed. For all they worked together every day. So it was no hardship to extend the hand of friendship to avoid crossing Martin’s line… and if a candle made its way onto the dinner table and soft music was playing while they ate, well, that was just atmosphere. There was tension in the air, but it was full of promise. Long silences were filled with half-lidded stares and the occasional brush of fingers. And that was it. 

 

This worked for about two months. Long enough that Martin had started to look slightly less gaunt, but no less haggard. He was still bossy and seemed content, but Douglas noticed he was starting to look… worn. 

“All right, Martin. What is it?” He passed Martin another plate to dry as they stood in the kitchen, washing up leisurely after a satisfying, and deliberately heavy, meal. Martin was practically swaying on his feet, but whether it was from the food, or the red wine Douglas had supplied, or something more, he wasn’t sure. 

Martin polished the plate with unnecessary dedication. “What’s what?” 

Douglas shook the suds off his Marigolds and turned to face Martin, planting both hands firmly on the bench either side of him so he could growl softly in his ear: “Don’t ever join MI6, you’re nearly as bad as Arthur at misdirection.” 

Martin’s delicate shudder rather undermined his _harrumph_ as he grabbed another plate off the drying rack. 

Douglas shook his head, let the water out of the sink and peeled off the gloves. “Martin.” He leaned over once more and cupped Martin’s chin gently, forcing him to look up from the bone-dry plate he was still rubbing determinedly. “What’s wrong?” 

“I don’t know what you—” 

Douglas brushed a thumb ever so lightly across the purple circle under Martin’s eye. Standing this close, he could see Martin’s skin looked unhealthy, too. And the whites of his eyes looked…wrong… as Martin’s lids fluttered closed. 

“Yes you do. You can tell me.” 

A huff. “Well, it’s not my diet.” Martin gave Douglas a sharp look that let him know he had not been as subtle about feeding him up as he’d thought. 

He raised an eyebrow defiantly. “Then what is it?” 

“I just…” Martin sagged. Douglas belatedly dropped his hand from Martin’s face, but didn’t quite lose contact, trailing it down his arm instead. “I haven’t _changed_ since I left.” 

It took a moment to click. Then… “Martin! It’s been more than three months. Why not?” 

“Where would I do it? I…can’t. It’s too dangerous at the house. And I’ve been working all hours and…” 

And they hadn’t stayed in any hotels posh enough to have baths lately. Douglas was stroking Martin’s elbow in consternation now. Martin didn’t seem to mind. Or notice. One or the other. 

“Why didn’t you just come here?” 

“I…” Martin looked sheepishly sulky; his nose crinkling, lips pursing slightly. 

And Douglas couldn’t help it; in lieu of _“I told you so”_ , he leaned forward to press a kiss on Martin’s stubborn pout. 

“Get in there.” He pointed at the bathroom. “You know where everything is.” 

Martin didn’t move. “Douglas…” 

Douglas turned back. “So help me, Martin, don’t be so stub—” 

“No. _Douglas_ ,” Martin reached out with both hands and grasped Douglas by the hips to pull him close. His expression was all want, and for once Douglas had no trouble reading it. 

There was nothing chaste about the way they kissed now. It was tongues and teeth and hot breath. 

It was Martin burying his hands in Douglas’s hair and positively _whimpering_ into Douglas’s mouth. 

Douglas met Martin’s whimper with a guttural moan of his own, pressing the younger man back into the counter and running his hands down his slender sides to clasp his hips. As they kissed ever more deeply – and Douglas wondered whether Martin was actually going to yank full hanks of hair from his scalp – Douglas began mindlessly rubbing circles at Martin’s pelvic bone, his thumbs just dipping into the top edge of his trouser pockets. He had one leg shoved between Martin’s, bracing them both. Martin was near panting into their kisses and even Douglas was starting to gasp as his thumb unexpectedly brushed a very warm, slightly damp, but very interested part of Martin’s anatomy as it strained against the inner cotton of Martin’s pocket. Martin jumped and let out a strangled yelp as he tried to flinch back, clearly mortified. Which was enough for Douglas to come to his senses. He gave the pocket an apologetically teasing stroke as he moved his hands to a less incriminating position on Martin’s back and guided the kisses to a slower and less fevered pace, and gradually they both pulled just far enough back to rest their foreheads against each other as they each caught their breath. 

“So,” said Douglas, conversationally. “Not Stockholm Syndrome, then?” 

Martin let out a slightly embarrassed chuckle that Douglas soothed with a soft kiss to his forehead. 

“No. I don’t think so.” 

Douglas shifted so he could wrap Martin into a more efficient hug, which reduced their ability to kiss and would have improved their chances of catching breath, if not for the many interesting and mutual ways in which they were now pressed together. 

Martin squeezed him back. “About that bath, Douglas…” 

It was Douglas’s turn for a sheepish laugh. “Just cold water for you?” 

They disentangled themselves and Martin looked shyly up at Douglas, clasping his hand. “Not entirely cold, no. And perhaps… I don’t necessarily have to bathe alone?” 

Douglas let out a shivering sigh of approval. “Anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable, Martin.” He winked, and led the way into the bathroom. 

 

***

 

Douglas had not stayed for the whole of Martin’s bath. He was determined not to rush things, and it became clear, quite soon into the process, that running a sopping sponge over Martin’s exquisitely sculpted torso was doing nothing for his self-control. He’d anticipated the problem to an extent, and refused to get in the bath with Martin, or even to undress. But it was Martin’s reaction when Douglas hesitantly ran one hand down his remarkable shimmering tail that clinched it. An utterly obscene undulation, concluded by Martin flipping himself over and dragging Douglas into a deep, dark kiss. One hand drawn, like a magnet, to Douglas’s hair – where he could feel the strands catching in the webbing between his fingers – the other sneakily woven between Douglas’s legs to cup him. 

Martin looked unfairly proud of the squawk this drew from Douglas. He looked less pleased when Douglas disengaged with a ragged breath and a soft kiss to Martin’s nose and stood up to leave. 

“Don’t look so woebegone. I’m not leaving you. I’m just,” Douglas adjusted himself, not very surreptitiously, “leaving the room. This is supposed to be relaxing and medicinal for you. And we’re supposed to be taking this a bit slowly.” 

Martin pouted. 

It wasn’t endearing. At all. 

“You stay in here and have a bit of a soak and a splash about. For as long as you need. I’ll be waiting for you in the living room.” 

Martin sighed and sank under the water, blowing bubbles pointedly. Douglas laughed as he flicked on the switch for the spa and closed the bathroom door behind him. 

 

Half an hour later they were curled up together on the sofa. Ten minutes of hesitant twisting and shifting finally resolved with Martin tucked up against Douglas’s chest. Douglas was running one hand through Martin’s damp auburn curls, the other was clutched between Martin’s, resting on the merman’s currently-completely-human chest. Apart from brief moments when Martin raised it to his lips for a kiss. 

“So how did you cope before?” Douglas murmured, not wanting to break the sleepy silence. 

Martin had been on the verge of purring. His voice was husky as he replied, “Well, I was only flying for fun – no schedule or boss or passengers to worry about. So I just used to fly to deserted areas, or to places where I knew there were deserted beaches. And then I’d get m-my fix, as it were. I couldn’t afford to fly every week, of course, but I was flying at least once every month or two, usually more. And of course, sometimes I could nip off the coast here. Off-season, there are a few deserted coves, but it’s always a bit of a danger. Bit too populated. 

“It’s different now. I don’t have a lot of free time. And we don’t fly anywhere like that; we’re usually on a tight schedule anyway, so I don’t get a chance.” 

“Not much call to fly to anywhere like that, I suppose,” agreed Douglas, dropping a kiss to Martin’s hair. 

“No,” said Martin thoughtfully, “although, actually, you’d think Gertie would be perfect for that kind of service…” 

Douglas stilled. “Martin? You. Are brilliant.”


	17. Epilogue

“How did you get rid of Arthur?” 

“Coconut tree-climbing competition.” 

“A what?” 

“Trust me.” Martin threw Douglas a bright smile as he led the way further along the rocks. 

Douglas admired the way the board shorts clung to Martin’s backside, even as the sun appeared to actually reflect _off_ his creamy white skin. Douglas himself had already started to turn a lovely olive brown and they’d only been in the sun for an hour or so. 

They rounded the corner of the headland and found… a secluded beach. It was a welcome change from the slightly (and only slightly) more populated main beach, half an hour’s clamber behind them. 

Still, the climb had already been fairly hazardous and the waves were crashing loudly below. It was obvious even from here that it wouldn’t be an easy climb down to either water or sand on the other side. No wonder it was empty. 

“I still don’t see…” 

“ _Trust me_ , Douglas.” 

They rounded the bend and the rocks began to smooth out into a kind of step formation off one side into the ocean. They were still nowhere near the beach but, as Martin lay their towels down, it became clear that the beach had not been his destination. 

Douglas was still dithering near the top “step” when Martin came over. 

“I have been thinking _a lot_ about this alcove,” he said, voice dark with intent as he ran a hand up Douglas’s chest then pulled him down into a filthy kiss. 

Douglas couldn’t help the helpless moan as he kissed back. He’d just planted both hands on Martin’s kneadable buttocks when he found himself unceremoniously pushed back. 

“Right. You… down there.” Martin pointed to one of the underwater steps. “Lie back and—” 

“—Think of England?” Douglas stepped gingerly into the water. It was warm, as oceans went, but still cool enough to cause the effects of Martin’s attentions to wane a little. 

“I was going to say ‘lean on your elbows’,” frowned Martin, stripping off his swimwear and not entirely inadvertently reversing any effect the shock of cool water had had on Douglas. “I certainly hope you won’t be thinking of England. With any luck,” he slipped his feet into the water next to Douglas, “you won’t be able to think at all _lllllllll_.” This last was lost in an awkward squawk as Martin slid all the way into the water and the transformation took hold. 

Douglas got into position and watched as Martin resurfaced, a cheeky grin on his face. He winked, then flipped back under, a jaunty tail flip a moment later showing Douglas that he’d swum a few metres off. Douglas chuckled, aware of the merman’s need to swim free for a while. He tilted his head back, eyes shut, and enjoyed the late afternoon sun on his face. 

This was their third chartered trip back to the virtually unknown islands, each so far with their favourite yacht salesman who was keen to find new sailing locations – and potential spots for private resorts and homes – for his rich clients. 

Carolyn was delighted, insofar as she was ever “delighted” by anything; marketing MJN as the kind of charter firm that could reach exclusive island locations that commercial operations rarely knew about had established a lucrative niche for them among a certain type of client. It had also resolved the lingering Jack situation, since even he, with all his money and friends in low places, was unwilling to upset a Russian oligarch. 

The Bermuda Islands, and thus their surrounds – pocked with unknown islands, according to Martin – were no longer off-limits to MJN. 

Douglas allowed himself a private, satisfied grin at the way his life seemed to be turning out. This was, for various reasons, the first time Martin had managed to take him along to one of his own secret locations. If they were all like this, he couldn’t imagine how hard it must have been for Martin when he’d had to give it all up. 

He relaxed into the water that was lapping against his chest. The sound of waves crashing in the distance – less rough-seeming now they were in this alcove – made everything feel tranquil. 

A feather-light brush against his legs barely caught his attention. Two warm hands at his hips did, however. Momentarily blinded by the sun, he nevertheless recognised Martin’s grip as he was pulled gently towards the edge of the step so he was floating free, only his elbows anchoring him to the shelf above. 

He looked down into the clear water. Pale, Martin might be, but with the _shift_ had come that greener scaled tinge, both more and less obvious when he was underwater. Martin met his eyes as he reached a webbed hand up the leg of Douglas’s shorts. 

It was all suddenly rather clear what Martin intended. 

Martin… who could breathe underwater. 

He saw a slow smile stretch across Martin’s face as the merman watched recognition dawn… and rubbed his other hand over the front of Douglas’s shorts. An abortive moan and Douglas forgot what was holding him up, reaching out to run his fingers through Martin’s tantalising red locks. 

His other arm immediately collapsed, dropping him several inches into the ocean. He scrabbled to haul himself back up, even as the water around him bubbled with Martin’s underwater laughter. 

The bubbles themselves did rather wonderful things. Which did not go unnoticed, if Martin’s raised eyebrow, barely visible through the sloshing water, was anything to go by. Douglas stabilised himself just in time to feel the front of his swimwear loosened and pulled down…and his entire length suddenly washed with cold then engulfed in heat and…suction. 

Dear god. Desperate to hang on, he concentrated on the distorted shimmer of Martin’s tail as it worked to keep him in place. 

This worked only until Douglas realised that Martin’s tail was moving in time to the sucks being bestowed and then he had to dig his fingers into the rock to distract himself instead. 

Martin… was very… very good at this. With both hands “free” he was lavishing attention on Douglas’s free-floating legs as well as _anything else_ he could reach. And… he kept blowing bubbles and humming which… 

…Which all in all meant that Douglas didn’t take anywhere near as much advantage of Martin’s underwater breathing ability as he could have done. 

 

***

 

“We’ll just have to try again another time,” said Martin casually, stretching out on his towel to let the sun finish drying him off. 

He had his eyes shut, but there was a definite smirk to the tilt of his mouth, and since he hadn’t bothered to put his swimwear back on, it was rather obvious that he wasn’t feeling anywhere near as calm and lazy as his tone would have Douglas believe. 

Douglas ran a finger up Martin’s slender thigh, enjoying the way the muscles… and other things… twitched enticingly. 

“You know, Martin,” he leaned forward to brush a kiss on the delicate hip, still marvelling at the way Martin, pale as he was, didn’t seem to burn. “I may not be able to breathe underwater…” 

He followed the kiss with a nip at Martin’s collarbone and a quick flick of the tongue over his nipple. Douglas manfully ignored the way Martin’s slight smirk had turned into a broad grin, though the younger man’s eyes were still defiantly tight shut, arm flung nonchalantly over his forehead. 

“…But I’m not bad—” He licked up the straining shaft, salty from the sea. “—for a landlubber.” This last was delivered directly to the tip of Martin’s cock, before he descended and proceeded to repay every one of the affections his now-gasping mythical lover had bestowed on him. 

Except for the trick with the bubbles. 

He’d find a way to do that later.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for a [prompt](http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/6034.html?thread=9377938#cmt9377938) over on the meme. (I'm only not filling out the full details here because minor spoilers...)
> 
> I am also on tumblr if anyone wishes to follow: [vinyl-octopus](http://vinyl-octopus.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Update! 26/03/2014 Two lovely people have made art of this fic series!  
> For all your mermartin illustration needs PLEASE check:  
> Jessica Mariana's gorgeous coloured scenes [here](http://jessicamarianaart.tumblr.com/post/80668549704).  
> And skygosh's fantastic sketches [here](http://skygosh.tumblr.com/post/73711072941/i-will-draw-500-mermartins-u-dont-think-i-will)
> 
> Thank you both!


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